Now, I didn’t want to fight, I had just buried my brother and was dressed up in my suit with my rosary beads on. I just did not want to fight. Well, one thing led to another and my blood started to boil. Thing about me is, once I’m started and had a few drinks, then there’s no turning back. We kept arguing and I was getting wound up. Then all of a sudden, his brother, big John Rooney, smashes me straight in the face. He was wearing a big saddle ring at the time and it busts my face open. I didn’t go back or fall down after the punch though. Another thing about me is that I have always been ready in case I have to fight; call it instinct but I’m always on my guard, even now when I’m sitting here telling you this story.
Anyway, I went to the corner and stripped off to my waist. Even up to this stage, I hadn’t taken the fight serious, but then big John throws a big right and his fist with the ring on busts my eye open. I thought, right, no more clowning with him. I just threw body shots at him and he went down five times and I picked him up five times. Not once did I go for his head. The police came to stop the fight but they knew they couldn’t and the fact that our own community controlled the fighting made them just stand and watch.
Another fighting man shouted for John to take off the ring, but I said, “No leave it on, give him a chance.” In the middle of the room was a big pillar that you could put your drinks on. Well, I took him straight through it. I bent down to finish him off but he gave in, so I thought the fight was over. Well, he gave me a punch in front of the police. I walked over to the bar, ordered lemonade and thought about how I had been punched at my brother’s funeral. I walked back to John and then I really hit him and he goes back into the wall. The fight was now over. I have to give it to John, he was a really tough fighter. The side of my face was like liver, all red where the ring had hit me.
With bareknuckle fighting, you must be able to take pain. I mean real pain. If you can’t take it then you can’t be a fighter. I’ve had men stand before me trying to kill me, wipe me off the face of the earth, with men behind them shouting, “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” You must understand, there’s no referee going to jump in and say, “Oh he’s got a cut above his eye.” They wouldn’t stop it, not if they rip out my heart they wouldn’t stop it.
I went on to have many bareknuckle fights after that one with John. Once I fought another travelling man called Bugsy Price. When I knocked him down and beat him, his wife came out and pointed a twelve-bore shotgun to my body to blow me away. I hear the gun click twice, the safety catch was on, and so I was able to take it off her. She wanted me dead and I came very close to it. I found out later that her father had done 15 years for shooting a man and now Bugsy Price is inside doing life for shooting someone. It looks like someone was watching over me that day.
When I tell people that I’m retired from fighting, they don’t realise that there’s no such thing as retirement with the gypsies. Even if I am using two sticks or a frame to walk, then they will say I look reasonable to fight. As long as I can be beaten it won’t bother them what condition I’m in, it would be a feather in their cap to say they have beat Bartley Gorman. Sometimes I feel it has become a burden on me, heartache. A man can have pain in his heart as well as his body from so much fighting. A lot of things have happened in my life, some things that I wouldn’t wish on a dog, but as my father used to say, “My back is big enough to bear it all.”
I feel that nobody knows me but myself and God. He knows all about me, and that’s what matters. I’m not bothered by what people say about me or what title they give me. Fighting is like being on stage and I myself must play my part. I was born to play it and that’s my destiny, or die.
Bartley Gorman sadly died of cancer on January 18, 2002, at the age of 57, just a few months after this interview. His autobiography, King of the Gypsies, is also published by Milo Books, priced £7.99.
RAY HILLS
London
You have to be tough to earn a fighting reputation in the capital, and this is exactly what Ray has achieved. He freely admits that his life has not always been lived on the straight and narrow. From time served in Wormwood Scrubs to the shady world of bareknuckle fights, Ray’s life has been a blood and guts struggle all the way.
I WAS BORN in 1951 and come from Acton [West London]. I came from a good family but my dad died when I was about five years old. I was always fighting when I was young, even as an infant the teacher made me wear slipper gloves, which was like a bag glove that boxers wore, reason being that they couldn’t stop me fighting, so with the gloves on I couldn’t hurt the other kids when I hit them. It wasn’t long before they expelled me from there. I went on to junior school and still they couldn’t stop me fighting all the time. Looking back now, I guess it may have been that I was assaulted by a relative when I was young. He got seven years prison and it just changed me, making me the way I am. There are no fighters in my family, just me; they were just a normal family. I was the only one who needed to fight.
A friend in school was a good welterweight boxer. His dad taught me how to fight, he was a good fighter and he trained us well. I had a job as a night porter in the fruit market. I shouldn’t really have been working there, as I was only 15 at the time. Some of the lads there would fight bareknuckle fights. We didn’t fight for money back then, it was just to see who was the hardest in the market. What gave me an advantage over some of the lads was that I could fight and was very mature for my age, with a good punch. The fights were hard and one guy called Colin was the guv’nor of the fruit market, he was always bashing someone up, he was a big tough fighter back then. He was always trying to prove himself. He was a lot older than me and I suppose he made a man out of me with all the fights we had.
Things were going well for me, I was training to be a pro boxer, but I went and threw it all away. I got done for armed robbery and attempted murder of a police officer. The van we were doing over pulled up, I jumped out and a have-a-go-hero’s car came around the corner and rammed me up against the van. My gun flew away from me, and myself and two accomplices ran off. I make the mistake of running straight toward the car that rammed me. It hit me again, right up in the air. I rolled off the bonnet, dragged myself up and got in our getaway car. The other car is following us as we drive away, it rams us and I’m thrown through the windscreen. I don’t know how I found the strength to get away but I do. I’m hiding out in an alleyway as the police helicopters are flying overhead. I’m covered in blood so I rub all sand on my head and over my body. I step out and a copper spots me, they stop and take a look at me and drive off. They must have thought I was a workman or something. Two days later I get nicked. I got grassed up, so they had me. I got sent down, all told, for 22 years and I did 14 years and two months out of it.
First time I went away I was only young and they sent me to the Scrubs. I was approached at some stage by a Taffy screw. Seems these two Asian guys had raped his daughter. He asked me to sort things out for him because the two guys were in the prison. This guy knew I didn’t like sex offenders and because I was always fighting as a young prisoner I was the man for the job. In the morning before they let everyone out of their cells they let me out first. I went up to where the first Asian was getting water. Now in prison the first water that comes out of the tap would be white hot, you couldn’t believe how hot it was. Soon as this guy turned up I done him with a bucket of the scalding water and smashed him to bits. I got back to my landing before the alarm went off. What I forgot was that someone had drawn a red heart on the back of my shirt just for a laugh one night. The screws were told that the guy who burnt and did the first Asian over had a red heart on his shirt. I was then walking around the exercise yard when I spot the second Asian going off to the toilet. Now, some of the screws were on the lookout for the prisoner who had the red heart on his shirt, but even so they still left me alone for a while when I followed the guy into the toilets. Now, he’s in the cubicle when I come in with a heavy wooden toilet brush and beat the shit out of him with it. I run out and while
I’m walking around the exercise yard, some of the screws grab me and drag me off to the block unit.
In the block I was kept away from regular prisoners. Upstairs were all the sex offenders like Ian Brady, the Moors Murderer. I could hear him typing some days, and would have loved to have gotten my hands on him. There was a guy a few cells away from me who was a well-known poisoner at the time; I can’t recall his name but I remember he was famous for doing his whole family. While walking on the exercise yard I get talking with him, not knowing who he was. The screw later on tells me and informs me not to take anything off him. The next night he gets the screw to take me a bun from him. The screw informs me that it was okay because the guy hadn’t touched it. Later he shouts for me to lend him some tobacco, which I did. When he returned what he owed me, the screws told me not to touch it, no way! Thinking about what he had done, I’m glad now that I didn’t touch it.
They shipped me out to the Isle of Wight. First I was in “A” wing, then later on I was sent to “C” wing, which was known as “married quarters” because some of the older guys were getting hold of the younger guys and shacking up together. Thank God I was a pro boxer and was big and fit because there were loads at it. I met some right hard bastards in there as well. I had four or five fights in there. I had to make myself known so I was left alone.
One of my hardest fights there was with this big coloured bully who I would see training in the gym, he was a big strong guy. He worked in the kitchens the same as me. I was working on the hotplate on this day and once a week we were all allowed a fry-up, eggs, beans, bacon and that. Well, this was fry-up day and there were four eggs left over, two for the bully and two for me, great stuff. I went to get my two and he had taken three, leaving only one for me. This may seem silly now but when you’re in prison things like this mean a lot. After arguing about it we agree to fight it out in the toilets, the screws turning a blind eye to all of this, which the screws used to do in those days. I put my tray on the floor and he tries to kick me in the face. I move, stand up and throw a straight right, which puts him on his arse, splitting his nose wide open. Now, in this prison there were metal cages around the staircases. Well, when he stood up I threw a left hook and it connected with the metal cage busting my hand to bits. The fight got broken up and I was put in isolation for a while.
It was a while before I saw him again, then one day I was in the gym and I’m training with my hand all busted up when I spot him. He’s come in to play basketball, his face is smashed up and all. Nothing happens so I forget about it all. Now, in this prison we all had wedges to put under our doors, like doorstops; everyone has these to stop people coming into your cell to get you. I’m lying on my bed when the door opens only a few inches because of the wedge. It was the geezer I bashed up. His arm comes through the door with this big blade in his hand, he puts it into my bed missing me by inches, and I was lucky he couldn’t get through the door or I’d be dead. I get out of my cell and chase him back to his cell, where he locks himself in. He gets moved out later on to a section where I can’t get at him. This all sort of got me a name in the prison, people knew not to mess with me because I wouldn’t have none of it.
One day I’m in my cell and this guy called Billy, who we all called Mary for obvious reasons, calls me. Seems his boyfriend George was giving him trouble and could I help? I didn’t really want to get involved but I still told him I would sort it out. Next morning I’ve forgot about this and I’m in the kitchen cooking a steak for myself. With that, all the alarms went off and all hell breaks loose. I look out of the kitchen as they bring George out with 16 stab wounds from a quarter-inch wood chisel; at this time he was still alive but dies later from his wounds.
Due to the fact that in prison I was fighting all the time, they put me under a woman psychologist. She told me, “Ray, if ever you feel violent then you must do some training to calm yourself down and release your anger that way,” which I found to be good advice. I would train constantly and was becoming bigger, fitter and stronger all the time. I had this little party piece: to entertain people I would snap off the prison door handles. If you ask anyone who’s been inside how hard it was to snap the handles off, then you would realise how strong I was.
I had another argument with this guy in prison and the screws had to come to my cell to get me. Now they knew what I was like so they send the psychologist down to speak with me first. The talk with her went well but later when the screws came for me they crashed through my door and attacked me. I smashed one so hard that I broke his spleen and I left-hooked another. I would have put them all out but they used a tranquilliser gun on me. Down I went. I was awake and aware of everything around me but not able to move a muscle. While I was like this they steamed into me, smashing me up bad. I was moved out to Parkhurst, and put down the block with a straitjacket on. It was real bad there. All I had in the cell was a trough, and the jacket had no back to it, just fixed so I couldn’t move my arms. They would come into the cell, hose me down and jab me up each day. They moved me around every prison in England, never staying long enough to settle, always in a different environment.
When I got out I got straight back into the gym. Thing was that I had lost my pro licence so I couldn’t get fights. I used to look after a place called The Fox and Castle to earn some cash. I got to speak with a good boxer called Jimmy Tippett in there who put me on the road to unlicensed boxing. Following Jimmy’s advice I started training down the Thomas a’ Becket gym. The first day I turned up for training I saw Roy Shaw [the famous unlicensed fighter known as “Pretty Boy”] sparring with a few guys. He asked me if I would spar with him, which I did and I found him to be a good puncher. I have a lot of respect for Roy. During my time at the Becket I sparred a lot with him.
I found prize-fighting easy. You must understand that I was big, very fit and a hard puncher. I remember fighting at a social club in Woolwich, it was a barefist fight and the guy I was fighting was an absolutely massive geezer. I must admit I was a bit scared because the guy was about 25 stone, so that’s a bit intimidating to say the least. He started throwing punches but I could see an opening downstairs and smashed into his ribs, breaking two of them. He went down and I jumped on top of him, smashing him to pieces, until they finally pulled me off him. That got me about £300, which was easy money compared to the way I used to earn it. I was fighting two to three fights a week, and even started promoting other fighters.
I was now training like a pro again so the prize-fights were easy money for me. I would just go in and smash them up. You could still get disqualified but were given three warnings first, so I knew I could get away with two fouls before they disqualified me. I could nut a guy or bite a lump out of his ear and still go on to win the fight. I fought this big black guy once, he had these long, big arms, so I worked my way in under his arms. I threw a punch over the top that connected, nutted him and then bit his ear lobe right off. The guy jumped out of the ring screaming his head off; I was in the ring shouting at him to come back. He just didn’t realise that with bareknuckle it’s the most barbaric fighting style there is, you can’t be a nice guy in bareknuckle fighting.
I fought Kevin Paddock in an unlicensed bout. I found that a real hard fight, he was a good fighter and all the time he was talking to me, calling me on. He was a talented boxer and the fight ended in a draw. I later watched him beat Lenny McLean. Paddock was a lot better fighter than Lenny and he had loads of fights. I had known Lenny for years, we had words quite a few times, we sparred together many times. We trained at a pub called The Ring which had a boxing gym upstairs. Now Lenny and myself wanted to get it on but we always held back when we sparred because it could have ended in a war. It was strange that Lenny and me never fought each other because most of the guys Lenny fought I also fought. It would have been a good fight. I always felt I was the better boxer but Lenny could sell the tickets, he was good at that, he could fill the place.
If I wasn’t fighting for money then I was working the doors. In Lond
on you had to be able to have a row to work on the doors because there was always trouble. I worked some of the best clubs from the Hippodrome to Stringfellows. I remember once when I worked a place in Ealing, it was called Crispin’s Wine Bar and it was a really big establishment. I let a good mate at the time in and he began to cause trouble. I threw him out at first but he came back and I ended up knocking him out. I picked him up and left him outside on the pavement. Well, I thought that was the end of it all. I finish work and I’m walking home when I can hear something behind me. I turn around and there’s this car following me. I look and notice there’s something sticking out of the window. I knew straight away it was a gun so I ran like hell and jumped away. The gun was fired and I felt my right leg lift up in the air. I knew I had to get away before the second shot was fired. I got back on my feet, ignoring the pain, and started running across the green nearby. If I had stood still I know they would have got another shot off and I would be dead; that may be what made me keep running with my leg in bits. I got to my mum’s and she cleaned it up, pulling all the pellets out and bandaging me up. I was really hurting bad with that one, very painful for sure.
I threw myself into my fight promotions and, of course, I was still fighting myself. For my second show I went to see big Colin from the fruit market, I told him I was now a prize-fighter and did he fancy a fight? He agreed and I gave him some tickets to sell. The place was a sellout. Everybody wanted to see us get it on, they all knew it was going to be a good scrap. First round and he comes straight at me, he smashes me to pieces, busting my face up. I know now that he is still a good fighter even after all these years. Round two, I start to throw him around like a rag doll, I grab him and throw him into the corner, nutting him on the top of his head, which smashed the front of my own head up.
Streetfighters: Real Fighting Men Tell Their Stories Page 6
