Over the years a few things had happened with these farmers. One tried to pitchfork my brother. He also told my wife, who was heavily pregnant at the time, about how he was going to shoot me in the stomach so she could hear me screaming. Well, this one day, my daughter Kelly was only about seven years old and Mary and myself were taking her into town. There’s a gate up the road and the one farmer was standing there having just closed the gate. I ask him to open it but he gives me this sickly smirk, so I get out of the car to do it myself. With that, he opens his long wax jacket to pull out this small, red-handled fireman’s hatchet. He lashes out at my face. “Come on then!” I shout. Now, he hesitated for a second, which gave me time to raise my hand and catch the handle in mid-flight. I step in and knee him in the balls. The older farmer turns up and tries to pull a large stone from the wall to smash my skull in, but couldn’t get it out. My daughter was screaming all the time. My wife gets out of the car and comes over to me as the other farmer gets on top of me and starts attacking me. Mary pulls him off me and grabs the hatchet by the blade. It is so sharp that it leaves a five-inch gash in her hand. Kelly runs back to my house screaming, hysterical, to my mother and sister. She told them the farmers were trying to kill me. Well, I get back home covered in blood, their blood mind you, not mine.
The police turn up and arrest me. I know it’s hard to believe but they do. Seems one of the farmers got knocked out by me and his face was damaged badly. To tell you the truth, as I knocked him out, I saw his eyes roll back in his head as he fell. I didn’t hit him any more, so it looks like I caught him with a good one. They charged me with GBH, even though they tried to kill me. From what I gather, his mouth needed ten stitches, his face ten, and his teeth were smashed in. The solicitor phoned me and we both agreed that I should be bound over by the police to keep the peace. I agreed to this just so my little girl and wife didn’t have to give evidence. One condition that I insisted on was that the farmer was bound over as well. I couldn’t understand it all. How could the police charge me? They even took his hatchet back to him, delivered in the police car of all things. If I hadn’t have taken it off him it would have been in my head.
Another fight broke out once in a field nearby with me and the farmer’s sons. They both pulled knives out, so I swept them down and bashed them up. The older farmer saw what happened and rushed to the farmhouse to come out with his two shotguns. I thought it was best to fuck off at that point, because I felt he would use them.
One thing I would like to tell you is that you are never too old to accomplish things. We had a team challenge with our karate team and I had to take ten women and ten men up to Bradford as our squad. The event took place in a hotel. I was fighting top of the bill, and it was just gone midnight on my 45th birthday when I was to jump in the ring to fight. I mention this not because of the fight but because of my age at the time. You see, if you have heart you can do most anything you desire. Never be put off by your age, just go for it. What’s the worst that can happen?
This big, 18-stone prop-forward came to the club one night with two of his friends. I let his friends in without paying but asked him for the money. “Why should I pay?” he asks. “Well,” I tell him, “the other night when myself and Mary came to your club, even though I had been told I could get in free, you insisted I pay. So now you have to pay.” He didn’t like it, but he paid and went inside. For the next few hours he sat inside staring at me. People were coming up to me telling me that he was going to kill me and I should watch out.
I walk over to his table and I ask him, “What’s your problem then? Everyone says you want to kill me. Well there’s no time like the present so let’s go outside. But remember there’s nobody to blow the whistle outside.”
“Come on then lads, let’s sort this one out,” he tells his mates. They in turn inform him that he is on his own with this one.
He gets up and has changed his tune; he now insists that he wants to see the manager, so off we go to the manager. After he tells his lies to the manager, the manager asks me if everything he has been told is true. “It’s the biggest load of bullshit I have ever heard,” I inform him. With that, the big prop makes a mistake in grabbing me by my suit to butt me. As soon as this happens, I push his hand aside and start to punch him up against the wall. I’m giving him hell and he eventually slides down the wall onto the floor, unconscious. He’s making these gargling noises, which some people often do when they are knocked out. I lean over him and give him my best shots. His nose completely spreads over his face as it breaks.
After about ten minutes, he comes round to find his face smothered in plasters from our first aid kit. “You’ve had it Preece, you’ve had it now,” he shouts to me.
I answer back, “You know where I live, knock my door anytime.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” he says, “I’m going to report you to the social, for working down here.” I lose the little bit of respect that I have for them when they say stuff like that.
I was working the door of the Four Sevens Club about 27 years ago. If I remember correctly it was a Saturday night and it was pelting down with rain, a real pig of a night. I’m getting a bit of mouth off these two guys. I throw one out and his mate follows, after us. I’m in the car park sorting these two guys out on my own, getting absolutely soaking wet as well. Inside the club a good friend of mine called Shawn is looking for me.
“Where’s Billy?” he asked one of the lads inside the club.
“He’s outside, fighting two guys in the car park,” someone answered.
“Well, what the fuck are all you lot doing sitting down? You should be giving him a hand,” he shouts.
Now Shawn isn’t a mug and can do the business when he wants to. Out he storms in his fancy white suit and brand new shoes. I had just foot-swept one of the guys to the floor and was wading into the other when the first one starts to get up off the floor. Shawn ploughs straight into him and his fight soon goes to the ground. They are grappling with each other in the stinking puddles of the car park. Shawn’s suit is now completely black and soaking wet. He gets a few good shots into the guy and, as he gets up from the floor, he sticks the boot in a few times. I put my one away and the fight comes to an end. We both go back in the club to get cleaned up, using towels from the kitchen to dry ourselves off.
Shawn looks down at his feet and shouts, “Right, I’m going to kill that twat I left in the car park.”
“What’s the matter now?” I ask.
“Look,” he says, “his fucking teeth have scuffed all my new shoes.”
With that, we all just burst out laughing. It was a funny end to a serious situation. I’m glad Shawn jumped in, it shows just how good a friend he is, and of course he did make us all laugh.
The tallest guy I ever fought must have been about six foot five and was on leave from the Army. He was sitting with his mates when I got told that he had just stolen a few bottles of orange juice from the bar. I walk over and as he gets up I ask him to return the drinks. Of course, he informs me that he hasn’t taken them. I ask him one more time. He then gives me abuse and pokes me in the chest. I told him not to do it again, but then he tried to poke me once more. I throw this beautiful left-hook, right-hand combination which sends him spark out. He lands on this big oval table full of drinks; he was lying there covered in all the drink. I knew soon as I connected that he was out, it’s that certain feel to a punch that lets me know I’ve connected right. If you go to the gym, you see the big guys pounding away at the bag, just throwing these big haymakers that, in reality, don’t do much damage. It’s the quick, sharp, snapping punches that your opponent doesn’t see that put them all away.
I’ve spent years training in gyms with karate, boxing or just lifting weights. I sometimes expect the kids I train to be as committed as I am, but I shouldn’t really. It gives me such a good feeling to get these kids training, they are all like a big family to me and I look after each one still. I never award belts to them until I feel they earn it.
It’s a big achievement getting a black belt, so they must work hard to get it. You should see some of their faces when they get their new belt or win a competition, it makes it all worth while for me. Money isn’t the most important thing in my life, it’s my family and the respect of others that matter to me.
Due to the upbringing that I’ve had, I could have turned out a bully. I’ve known others who have had their lives turn out that way. I myself decided to be a fair person, not look for fights or cause trouble. I think that is why I have so many good friends and get on so well with others. Just because I had a hard life doesn’t mean I have to make life hard for others. My wife and kids have never wanted for anything. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them. My wife Mary has always been by my side and I owe everything to her. She has given me 25 years of faithful love and of course our beautiful daughter Kelly. There’s not a day that goes past when I don’t think of how much I love them. You see, even though I have always been known as a fighter, I’m a softhearted bugger as well. If I made friends with someone now, I would be their mate for life. I’d rather have 1,000 friends than one enemy. I’ve had so many fights that I haven’t mentioned here. Each time I’ve fought with cold hard aggression but I still would rather be known as a nice guy than a fighter.
GREG HALL
Manchester
Greg Hall (right) receives his blue belt in Brazilian ju-jitsu from the legendary Royce Gracie
It takes a certain kind of character to survive for more than a decade as a professional doorman in the gang-haunted clubs of central Manchester. Greg Hall draws his spirit from an unhappy childhood and from the martial arts that gave his life direction and meaning. No-one is more knowledgeable about realistic combat techniques.
YOU SHOW ME a tough guy and I’ll show you someone who was bullied as a child. When you have had that awful feeling as a child, you never want it to come back again. I was born in Crumpsall, north Manchester, in 1970, and had a rough childhood. My mam and dad had a lot of trouble with each other. It gave me an inferiority complex and I was bullied a lot at school. It affected my self-worth and the bullies could see that weakness.
I had a circle of friends in this park where we used to go and they weren’t so rough, but you could go outside the area and there were rivalries. Crumpsall would fight Blackley or Cheetham Hill. Wherever you went, you got, “Where are you from?” It was like asking what football team you supported and you had to fight your way out. I wasn’t a sportsman at all: I used to forget my PE kit on purpose and stand on the line watching the others play football. But from being a young boy I used to ask my dad to take me boxing. I wanted to go when I was seven but my dad wouldn’t let me.
Brian Robinson and Dave Massey used to teach at Boniface’s gym. I finally went when I was 14. It was the wrong night and they were doing morris dancing! The lady said, “Come back tomorrow night.” So I returned the next night. I felt a bit intimidated on the way there. I didn’t know what to expect. Brian Robinson was the pro trainer and Dave Massey was the amateur trainer. Dave said he had beaten Dave “Boy” Green [former double world title challenger] as a boxer. In my mind, I took to it straight away, because I knew I was forging a good, strong will, but physically I was just a skinny, gangly kid. They were all from Salford and when I sparred they tried to punch me up. The gloves were really old and blue and came up to your elbow.
I have always had an addictive personality and I just got into it. I kept seeing Pat Barrett [Manchester-born former British and European Light-welterweight Champion] in the local Express, so I went to the Collyhurst and Moston gym, where he trained, and enjoyed it. They were a bit better trainers there. When you see somebody who is the business, you suddenly realise what is a bad teacher. They were showing us the proper body mechanics. I had quite a few fights there, then went to the gym in Moss Side run by Phil Martin. When I first went in it was all Moss Side guys, mostly black, and from the minute I went in it was intimidating. Phil Martin used to have the heating turned up to 100 degrees and the fitness was really intense. It was really good for your mind: your brain wanted to blow up but you had to keep going. There were some champions at Martin’s: Frank Grant, Ensley Bingham, Maurice Core, Carl Thompson, Stevie Walker, Ossie Maddix. I started doing Thai boxing for a couple of years as well, when I was about 15, with Master Toddy. He had been over in England a while and was “the man” at the time: him, Master Sken, Master Toddy and Master Woody. They were all the top men. I would train every day and still do. I had loads of energy: I was hyperactive. My son has got the same thing and he is nine.
Outside the gyms, I was part of this crowd of young kids who weren’t tough, but I met a couple of guys and went down the wrong track. I minded this guy who was drug-dealing, and he used to rob cars. I would make sure that if anyone came while he was taking a car, I would do them. The drugs were lucrative. We used to go to this nightclub and he sometimes paid me up to£200 a night and sometimes he was so off his face, he didn’t even deal anything. It was Es and acid and all that stuff.
There was a lot of big rival teams [of young gangsters] at the time. We never got caught by them but you were always worried that various teams might find out. It was only me and him, and so we usually avoided the clubs. I didn’t know too much, I was just a young boy thinking I was a tough guy. There were some people, the top Manchester hard men, who I never saw but I heard the names. There were stories about them: some probably true, some blown out of proportion. A lot of my pals have gone to jail or got shot or got caught up with dickheads.
I started dealing myself. One day I was sat in my flat in Blackley with my dealing partner and my girlfriend at the time. In the daytime this guy had come to the door and asked, “Have you got any draw?” I said, “No, we have finished.” He started looking around the house. The door of the flat was wired up and strengthened but had a cut-out switch so it wouldn’t kill anyone. A lot of the dealers did the same: you would get wrought iron and fix it into the floor with scaffolding and put a plug into the wall and put the positive to one strip and the negative to another and the minute you can see there is trouble you can activate it. In the flat door was also a spyhole. There was a blind spot and I had a mirror to cover that. It was to protect against “taxers”.
At night this guy came back. My pal opened the door and the guy had a pump-action shotgun. My pal went to hit him but was knocked over by another guy. I heard the door go boom and all the hairs on my neck stood up. I had this big sword but before I got close enough this black guy had the gun in my face and said, “Fucking get down on the floor.” I kept trying to go for it again but he had the gun on my girlfriend. It was January 2 and he said, “Get down there and kiss that Christmas tree.”
He got away with nothing because me and my mate blagged it. We didn’t live at the flat and made sure we kept the place bare. We opened all the cupboards and showed them there was nothing there. We knew who they were and went looking for them straight away. After they left the house, there was a carload outside and I ran towards it and they drove off. The anger overcame the fear: I was just thinking, what shall I do? Martial arts training helped me control the fear.
I stayed at Master Toddy’s about six years and became fully qualified in Thai boxing and tae kwon do and got my belts. But I was just doing martial arts, not really thinking about it. Then I met a man called Steve Powell. He had been a doorman himself and he opened me up to karate and then jeet kune do and then my martial arts just exploded. It had all come home to me when I was in a pub one day with a pal, wearing my imaginary black belt, when it went berserk. These guys were hitting each other with chairs and bottles and I thought, how can I deal with that? Powell dealt with reality stuff.
I started working on the doors when I was 21, in Manchester city centre. I was at a gym in Salford and they needed spare doormen and asked if I could cover and I stayed there for six years. Most of my fights were there. It was a hotel, the Britannia, near Piccadilly bus station, with a club called Saturdays, a bar and another club
. It was for hotel patrons and there was a dress code. When I got there, I thought we had a good team and they blocked most of the undesirables.
You could get into the club from different areas, so you would block them on one door and they would get in the other. It was rammed out every time. I think it was 2,000 capacity, mainly soul music. Because of the trouble around it, some clubs have it in their licence now that they can’t have soul music. When I first got on the door I was green about how it worked. I thought we were one team and they were another and it was us against them. I soon found out it wasn’t like that. There would be 15 doormen on at the weekend but only three during the week and if they came back during the week, you had had it. The manager was weak as well.
The two worst types of doormen I have worked with are the guy who talks a good fight and couldn’t fight sleep, and the guy who stands there with his chest out looking at himself, with his head up his own arse, not aware of anything going on. We started getting quite a few of the first type and when it kicked they were shaking like jelly.
Streetfighters: Real Fighting Men Tell Their Stories Page 17
