We get back to our feet and it’s just me and the guy who stabbed my wrist left. Now, I had been trained with a knife and at the time fighting with a knife was my thing. I disarm him as he attacks me. I use his knife to cut his hand and then his leg. I finger-jab him in the eyes and grab hold of his hair to pull him down. As I get him down I start to slash his face open, I get on top of him and someone is still hitting me as I’m cutting the guy on the floor. All of a sudden there’s the sound of sirens in the air and the police are all around me. I start to calm down and take in the whole situation. There’s a few guys scattered unconscious on the floor and the one guy has blood pissing out of him, all over.
This one copper takes me to the hospital with my nose smashed up, teeth missing, stab wounds in my back and the slash to my wrist. The copper takes me to one side and explains my options: “You have two choices, make a complaint and it goes to court, or get cleaned up here and go home. I don’t like what’s happened, and I don’t like the guys who started this fight, they’ve done things like this before. The only difference this time is they picked on the wrong one. It’s up to you, what you want to do?” I think he didn’t want some big racial argument or maybe it was because he had to work in the area and didn’t want any hassle on his doorstep. Anyway, I got cleaned up and decided not to press charges and all that. I went to my mate’s house and stayed the night. I didn’t go home until the swelling in my face had calmed down a bit. I never told my mother what really happened, and to this day, she doesn’t know the truth.
In Luton we had large gangs of football hooligans like the Hatters, Millwall and West Ham. I got involved with a gang [who follow Luton Town] called MiG (Men in Gear) and we went looking for fights. Some of our clashes involved weapons like Stanley knives or home-made weapons. I used to make weapons of wood with nails sticking out. I must admit I did go through a violent time with the MiGs, and went off the rails a bit. If it wasn’t for the martial arts then I could have easily got more involved with the criminal element in Luton.
I started doing more door work on different clubs; now, instead of looking for trouble, I was more intent on stopping it. At the time there were different security firms running the doors and of course each one wanted the others’ doors. The Leicester Arms was a pub that myself and my mate Roger were looking after but other security firms wanted it. Now other firms were coming down heavy on the Leicester Arms, there had been petrol bombs thrown and customers were getting beat up when they left the place. Roger wanted to sort it out himself but I took it upon myself to sort it. It was arranged that I fight this guy called Eddie who ran a rival firm. Eddie was a big fucker, about 18 stone and could handle himself. I was getting to be known as one of the top doormen and felt that by fighting Eddie, I would be well and truly recognised as such. I just felt I wanted a challenge, something to test myself out, I suppose. This was going to be a bareknuckle fight but really I couldn’t lose. You see, because Eddie was so tough, if I lost to him it was only what people expected, and I’d get respected for taking him on. If I won then I’d be known as the guy who beat him, and get more work in the long run.
We met up in this car park. I brought a few friends and so did Eddie. It was going to be a straightforward bareknuckle fight but he insisted that it be “all-in”; if it went to the ground, then so be it. I agreed and his friends and mine let us get on with it. The fight lasted about 15 minutes. Sometimes we would trade punches, other times friends pulled us apart, off the floor. I found my agility really helped me, also I was younger and fitter. He was catching me with some good shots. One actually bust my cheekbone up; I heard the crack as he broke it but ignored it at the time. I smash my elbow into his face as we sort of grapple each other, standing up. I spot my opportunity and pull his shirt over his head. One good, clean left hook and the job was finished. Eddie was out on the floor and his mates start to piss themselves laughing; I remember one saying, “Eddie’s going to be pissed off with that one. That’s taking the piss.” When he awoke he shook my hand and that was that. Guess he was a fair guy that way.
I had lost more teeth again and the side of my face was right up. My mate told me to go to the hospital because I looked like the Elephant Man. The hospital told me my cheekbone was fucked so they had to sort it for me. A lot of guys then wanted to test me out. I’d have to fight guys who came to challenge me when I was on the door or just walking through town. Things were starting to get a bit on top now that word was getting around about me.
I was on the door of a London club with my mate Marcus, who was ex-Army and could have a fight. We were working through an agency covering for some of the club’s doormen who were off work. This club was getting lots of trouble with vanloads of guys coming there when we were working and attacking the customers in the club. There were two other doormen on that night; we had just met them and they seemed good lads. They helped us get a few out at first but when they saw that some of them were tooled up, off they ran, leaving Marcus and myself to try and sort it. We stood our ground but both of us took a bit of a bashing. We didn’t lose and put a few out in the process, just kept on fighting until the police came and most of them fucked off. It was a hard old battle but I was getting more experienced and it was just part of the job.
Word got back to Lenny McLean, the famous unlicensed and bareknuckle fighter, who came down to see us. He explained that he was in charge of the nightclub door and admired us for the courage we had shown. I didn’t really know much about Lenny but everyone else was sort of in awe of him. He offered me the head doorman’s job at the SW1 Club and that way he was paying me direct, not through an agency. I looked on Lenny as sort of a big brother type; he’d offer advice, laugh along with us and treated everyone with respect. Now I had heard about this guy called “The Guv’nor” who was this larger than life character and a fighting legend. Through Marcus and others I found out that Lenny was the Guv’nor. Marcus knew all the stories about him and I slowly began to find out just how important Lenny was.
There was this big gypsy guy, Stephen, who worked the door of the Jazz Café, he was massive, probably the biggest man I ever fought. How this happened was through Lenny who, as most people know, was involved in the bareknuckle game. Lenny was going to sort out a fight between Stephen and another guy called Peters who Lenny knew was a good ex-boxer who could have gone all the way. I said to Lenny that I wanted to do it, I could use the cash and, as I have never been knocked out, I really thought there was nothing to fear, just a hiding, that’s all. I was strapped for cash at the time and there was ten grand on offer, win or lose, so I had to go for it to pay my bills, and of course I was looking to test myself.
The fight took place in the NCP car park in Luton Street, by Leicester Square. Lenny’s boys were in charge of the car park security, so that seemed an ideal place. At about 12.30 at night they arranged on the bottom floor a space for the fight. When we turned up there was in excess of 100 people there, businessmen and all sorts. Stephen had his shirt off and looked absolutely massive. Now it does scare you at first when you see someone that big but remember I was always fighting bigger guys than me when I was a boxer. I was used to being lighter than my opponent but also I was fitter and faster, with a good chin. There was a lot of hype and scare talk about Stephen, things like how he had broken someone’s back and was one of the top gypsy fighters. He was in his late twenties so was still a fit and sharp fighter.
The fight started and we exchanged blows. His punching power shocked me and he caught me with a few shots that sent me down. I got up thinking that I shouldn’t fight his fight because he was too strong. I ran around him and he turned and ran straight at me. I sidestepped him and jumped up onto him, wrapping my legs around him and tying him up. I clamped my arm around the back of his head and pressed my thumb into the nerve on his neck to put him out. All the time he was trying to resist going out but I kept holding him as we fell to the floor. People were trying to pull me off but I wouldn’t leave go, no way. Eventually he went out. He was
so strong that it took a lot of effort but he was out for a while. The whole fight took just 48 seconds. A lot of people were shocked that it wasn’t a long fight and there was a bit of a riot but things got sorted out. I really wanted to win for myself and Lenny; of course, the £10,000 helped.
Lenny was happy that I won, even though he, like everyone else, wanted to see a longer fight. He told me, “Ten out of ten mate, I’ve never seen a bareknuckle fight over so quickly. How you got past his punches and did that I’ll never know. Show me that kung fu shit.” I showed him where the nerve was and how to do it and, laughing, he said, “Keep that bloody thing away from my neck.” I always liked Lenny and miss him now he’s gone.
Every year in Luton at the end of summer, the travellers would set up camp and come around touting for fighters, for barefist fighting. This one year I watched big Dan Rooney [a renowned Irish knuckle champion] fight three guys one after another on some industrial ground. They put the winnings in a bag and it was well up to £5,000. This guy was shouting, “Dan will fight anybody, anybody at all. You there, black boy, do you want to have a go?” I thought, fuck it, I’ll have a go.
Dan was a big fighter and I had fought some strong guys in my time but Dan was something else. He had these huge hands, no kid, Lenny had big hands but these were something else. I’m not a small boy but at one stage I dodged a punch and Dan caught me in the chest and his fist felt massive. I threw everything at Dan, punches, high kicks, I used everything I had learned over the years. He was just so bloody strong. At one stage I threw a kick that caught him at the side of his neck, which he caught. He clamped just one hand on my leg and pulled me off balance. Thinking he had both hands on me, I couldn’t understand where the punches were coming from. Then it dawned on me that he was so big and strong that he was holding me with one hand. I was upside down and he was hitting me everywhere, in my face, stomach and even in the nuts. That’s how strong he was; I was over 15 stone and he held me like that. I managed to get away and threw some combinations of kicks and punches. Then I tried to foot-sweep him down. He threw a big right hand and I stepped in, hitting him with my elbow in the mouth. I pulled my elbow back and there were two of the biggest teeth I had ever seen sticking out of my elbow; I pulled them out and I never realised human teeth were that big. They were wedged into my elbow, right in and I’m still scarred from them. As Dan went down he smashed his head on the floor. I stepped in as he was trying to get up and stuck some kicks into him. The gypsies went berserk and it all went up. They were playing fuck, grabbing for the money. I jumped on the bag and stuffed loads down my trousers before it kicked off with the gypsies and guys from Luton.
About two to three weeks later I met up with Dan in a pub and we shared a few drinks together. We talked about my father who had fought Dan years before in a good bareknuckle fight. He told me that he wouldn’t have paid me the cash, anyway, win or lose. He asked my how much I got away with and I told him just under £3000, and he laughed it off.
Things were getting a bit rough for me in London. There was this big dealer who had this reputation of being a hard man, gangster type. He was crammed full of steroids and looked impressive but it still only took me two punches to put him down. Now he and his friends wanted to put an end to me. I was getting some trouble from it. Once I was driving along with the girlfriend down the M25, when I notice this Transit van was cutting people up. I just put it down to road rage and that. What I didn’t know was that the van was trying to get in front of my car while we were waiting in heavy traffic by road works. The van pulls in front of my car and its back doors burst open. Four guys jump out and start to smash fuck out of the car, while I have to stay in the car to protect my girlfriend. Basically I can’t do a thing but watch them smash it up and shout that my days were numbered. I started to pull back on the door work now. I was only working smaller places.
I was on the door in a club in Dunstable when I hear this car pulling up. There sticking out of the window was a shotgun pointing straight at me. My mate Tony saw what I saw and pushes me into the club, closing the door as well. The shotgun blasts the window of the club in and as they drive away they fire another shot that puts in a shop window as well. Another time I was knocking on a mate’s door when again I can hear a car driving fast behind me. I think it was the way the car accelerated that alerted me at first. I bang on the door and get in just as they fire a shot into the brickwork of the house.
My missus was on to me about getting out of the game. I had her to think of, and so we moved to Wales. I’d been coming back and forwards to Wales for years, and I love the place, the people are friendly and the pace is so easy going. I work the doors and run my own martial art clubs in various Welsh towns. I have trained the instructors up and they handle things for me when I’m not there. It’s hard getting around all the clubs each week but I manage it and hope to branch out a bit more.
JOHN “LAMBY” HATFIELD
Leicestershire
Life on the road was tough in the Forties and Fifties, and John Hatfield learned to look after himself from a young age. Some of his earliest memories are of fighting for his family’s honour. Fellow travellers, local hard men or nightclub bouncers, it made no difference, they all went the same way – down.
I HAVE ALWAYS been a travelling man. I was actually born in a caravan and lived most of my early life travelling. My mother was a proper gypsy but my father wasn’t. They had 15 children, with only seven surviving. We had a hard life but we all mixed in and got through it all. We would travel around picking strawberries, potatoes, beet and any other work we would find on the farms. It was hard times for our parents, but we kids didn’t see it like that, we were travelling the countryside in horse-drawn caravans and loving every minute of it. We didn’t have any schooling and had to work from an early age to survive. It’s the only life we knew.
We would make new friends every time we set up camp, only to get up some mornings to find they had moved on and we would meet up again at some later date. All the money us kids earned went straight into the pot for the whole family. Sometimes we would stay somewhere for a few months, other times we would only stay a few days, never knowing from one day to the next where we were going to end up.
I’m 66 years old now but can still remember like it was yesterday being a small, 14-year-old travelling lad. We had set up camp not far from here. We often travelled around with the Gaskin family, who are a big travelling family. We all grew up together and go back a long way. There was this older boy at the camp who was a good fighter; he was from the Shackle family. He was about 17 and had beaten all the other gypsy lads. In fact he had beaten one of my older brothers and three of my cousins. Well, it turns out everyone thought I was too young and small to be fighting, so nobody thought about me fighting him. One day my father and his good friend John Gaskin came back to the camp with all the men; they had been out to a pub and were in good spirits. Someone shouted to John that the Shackles’ lad had beaten all the other boys and was the best fighter.
John said to the Shackles’ boy, “So, you beat all these lads then?” and he points around to all the boys around the camp.
“Yes, I did,” said the boy.
John looks at him and holds out two large apples. “You fight Lamby here, who’s only a baby, and the winner gets these two apples.”
He looks at me and asks me, “Lamby, will you fight him?”
“Well, he’s a big lad, but yes, I will fight him,” I answered.
John shouts at us, “Get at it then!” and we both launch ourselves at one another. We were punching and kicking for about half an hour and I was the winner. It felt really good to beat the boy and of course the apples tasted good. John turned to the Shackles and said, “Lamby’s beaten the best lad, so now he’s the best lad on the road, the best boy here.” That was my first real fight, and you could say I had a bareknuckle fight for just two apples.
Now my dad was a good man, but he drank a lot of beer and him and my mother would have a few argu
ments along the way. I remember saying to him once, “Dad, when I’m sixteen I’m going to give you a good hiding.” I couldn’t do it then because I was too young and he would have flogged me with a horsewhip. Just before I turned 16, Mother and Father had this big row. He came home one night drunk and started to argue with my mother. He grabbed her, hit her once and pulled his hand back to hit her again. I jump forward and hold onto his arm. I lifted him up, clean off the floor. I pull back my right hand and shout, “No!” to him. Before I could throw a punch, my mother got between us. “Lamby, son, how can you hit your own father?” she shouts to me. I looked at my mother and I realised that she loved him and I couldn’t hit him in front of her. He meant the world to her.
I knew I had to leave home, so I packed all my stuff, two shirts and two pairs of trousers and left. From that day on my father never laid a finger on my mother; all us boys were now grown up and wouldn’t stand for it. My dad had been brought up hard and I guess this was the reason he was the way he was. As a boy he had fought in the First World War: he once told us that he had watched kids of 14 and 15 die by his side fighting. It was a terrible thing for a young man to witness and it reflected on the type of man he was. Whenever the police came to move us on, my dad would shout, “I’ve shot better fuckers than you in the war!” to them.
Streetfighters: Real Fighting Men Tell Their Stories Page 14
