Streetfighters: Real Fighting Men Tell Their Stories

by Davies, Julian

  It was when I returned from the States at the age of 30 that I met Lenny McLean [the infamous “Guv’nor” of the unlicensed boxing scene] at a venue in Ilford. It was during a time when the bareknuckle and unlicensed fight scene was having new life breathed into it from fighters like Roy Shaw, Donny Adams, Cliffy Fields, Danny Chippendale (the “Kangaroo Fighter”), etcetera. Lenny sat me down for a long chat. He was a real nice bloke, although we lost touch in later years. He convinced me that I should stay away from all the violence and use the skills I had learned in the States, and encouraged me to get involved with work in the boys’ clubs round London’s East End. He also introduced me to a comedian who was compère at the fighting events that Bob Wheatley was running. Lenny asked a man called Mike Pugh to help me out. I never looked back from that day. I became involved in the comedy circuit, which left me lots of time to work in the community on a voluntary basis, spend time with my family and enjoy my life. So I always say that it is thanks to Lenny and Pughie that my kids have a dad. I believe I may have got back into the scene that almost destroyed me and may have ended up a quivering basket case, banged up in the nick or dead.

  Fighters today are fighting more for money than honour, so that takes the edge off it a bit. The heart is still there but the motive is not as strong. I have seen some great little fighters, however, but the whole sport scene is dominated by money, and bareknuckle is no different. It is more controlled by syndicates, groups or business and is not growing from the honour, culture and machismo that it stemmed from. I have to admit, however, that I have nothing to do with the UK scene any more but I am involved in the USA interest and trying to purify their Ultimate scene a little by creating an offshoot. Bareknuckle is far safer to fighters than gloved fighting. Punch-drunk syndrome was never identified until after Queensberry introduced the use of gloves. Gloves protect the hands, not the opponent. They allow the fight to go on for longer and more damage to be inflicted upon a fighter. Imagine hitting a wall with your bareknuckle: HURTS, DON’T IT? Now put on the huge gloves of today; they are almost like bubble wrap, you can punch away all day. You can knock someone around for ever until their brain goes to pulp, where bareknuckle, you would want to get it over quick before your hands went. The knuckles would get pushed up in to your hand or they would break or just hurt otherwise.

  The worst thing a bareknuckle fighter can expect in a straightener is a few cuts and abrasions and his hands developing rheumatism by the time he is 40. Gloved fighters have the neurological system to take care of, becoming punchy or having the system destroyed through repeated blows to the head. Look at the pointless destruction of a great man like Ali. What a waste. My hands are fucked but my brain is strong. Remember, though, that professional bareknuckle is a little different to other forms of bareknuckle in that our hands would be strapped tightly to protect the small bones, unlike gypsy bareknuckle or streetfighting, where the hands would mostly be literally bare, although even some of those men have a rag wrap or wear thin leather gloves. Professional fighters would take more care of their hands and train harder, not like the spontaneous fighters I just mentioned that would not train regularly nor have a trainer to teach them to look after their hands.

  I still love to watch the fights. There are some cabled in from Ireland to the States, you know. It’s still that one-on-one that attracts most men, I think. Even if you have never fought or, like me, couldn’t fight again, when you watch a fight you can fantasise that you are in there and every blow is yours. The smell and feel of the crowd evoke old memories. Things I miss the most are the comradeship of other fighters and the cheering of the people who appreciate what you have given them. I don’t get to see real bareknuckle much any more because it is outlawed all over the place and I no longer belong to the scene of people that would be privy to the fight venue, so don’t get invited.

  The greatest gypsy fighter I ever saw fight was Hughie Burton, who I have mentioned before, also known as Uriah by some. Hughie was a brave and strong fighter and would never be hurried. He would take a challenge from any man and arrange the fight for the following morning, following a good breakfast. I took this advice from him: never fight angry, never fight without a good breakfast inside you and always make the man wait, never fight there and then. Unfortunately Hughie has passed away but he has been known to beat five men, even having had a hammer planted in his head during an ambush. This man always fought fair and never used a weapon in his entire fighting life. His family always filmed Hughie’s fights, so if you were able to contact them, you would have a pot of gold.

  Alongside Hughie and of equal quality was Tucker Dunn, a distant uncle to me and also to the fighter Bobby Frankham, related by marriage to Gypsy John Frankham: both boxers, of course, and subsequently bareknuckle fighters. I have never met Bobby, as we are very far removed in family terms. Bobby lost his licence after hitting the ref following his defeat by Billy Simms and turned to bareknuckle to earn his money. Bobby’s greatest claim to fame was training Brad Pitt for the film Snatch, in which he played an Irish bareknuckle fighter. Tucker was a great fighter and even at the age of 76 knocked a man out for taking the piss while he was delivering some iron in a scrap yard. This was December 2000. The man is still a fighter today even after two heart attacks. I guess following the two men I mentioned – Hughie and Tucker are my absolute heroes – I would say the next bravest gypsy man I have seen fight would be Bartley Gorman. Bartley was a quietly spoken man who found the Lord and walked away from the violence of the bareknuckle arena. He had stories to tell that will spin your head, including the time he was macheted by several attackers after beating a man square.

  What makes a great fighter? First of all, you mustn’t fear pain. If you fear pain then you have lost already. You have to have a great belief in yourself, and a sense of pride in what you are doing. Be honourable, and show respect to your opponent, even if you think he is no good at the sport, because it takes a special kind of person to get in that fight arena and go one-on-one.

  My life now is fantastic. I have my kids and grandchildren around me. I breed and sell thoroughbred horses which, after my family, is still my first love. I have my work as a comedy writer and author. I am active in the Roma National Congress, being recently invited to work with the scheme operated by the US Government. This is to locate Romany families regarding allocation of money held by the Swiss Government, part of the Nazi loot taken during World War Two during the Holocaust, in which the Germans murdered ninety per cent of the European Romany community. I live half of my time in the USA, in Windsor, California, which I love to death, and the rest of my time is spent home with the family. I would say that my life is perfect. No man could ask for any better. I have my lovely family, my health, the sun in my face and my work is also my hobby.

  My story is a long one and the full version can be read in my own book Tarmac Warrior [available at major bookstores, priced £7.99].

  JAMIE O’KEEFE

  East London

  Jamie has confronted his traumatic childhood in the same way he has confronted all other conflicts in his life: head-on. He has built on his traditional martial arts training and extended it to real life situations by developing his New Breed fighting system, which has won him acclaim the world over. Jamie can handle any situation, from a controlled environment to bedlam on the streets.

  I WAS BORN in east London in 1961 and right from the start my life was a constant struggle. I come from a mixed background: my mother was Scottish and my father, as you might expect from my surname, was Irish. I have a sister two years younger than me and I was informed by my mother that I had a twin sister who was born disabled and was put immediately into care on my father’s insistence. This was very much a taboo subject and as a result I’ve never ventured to find out the truth of the matter. My mother was an alcoholic and when I was four weeks old she took me out shopping and forgot about me, returning home alone before realising what had happened. Thankfully when she returned to the shop I was still there and s
he took me home. A similar thing happened a few years later, when I must have been about eight years old. My mother, sister and myself were travelling to Scotland on the train when my mother got off for a cup of tea at a station we’d stopped at and didn’t get back on. I was old enough to realise what had happened and told the guard, who stopped the train at the next station for my mother to catch up with us.

  My parents were always splitting up and getting back together, until I was about ten. It was then discovered that my father was sexually abusing my sister, which explained why he was always so nice to her but treated me so badly. It was me who accidentally discovered what was happening but my sister begged me not to tell anyone for fear of what he would do to her. However, the secret was cutting me up so badly inside that, in an act of sheer frustration and anger, I actually set fire to our house in the middle of the night. I could bottle it up no longer and told my mother what was happening. Shortly after, the police were involved and my father was sent to prison, but no time inside can compare to him having messed up the rest of my sister’s life. That was the last we ever heard of the scumbag.

  When all this was going on, my sister and myself were sent to live with our grandmother in Scotland. With us having English accents, this caused a few problems in our new Scottish school. This was my first taste of the bullying which was going to make my life a misery for many years to come, but to look on it in a positive light, it was the bullying which was to ultimately change my life and led me to where I am today.

  Despite the tough time I was having at school, I enjoyed my time in Scotland, but when I was around eleven both my sister and I were taken back to London to live with my mother and her new boyfriend. He was a crook who made his money by various forms of villainy: robbery, con-tricks, any way he could earn a dishonest pound. I have to admit that he always seemed to have plenty of it to flash around. Most of this would be blown on booze, with both him and my mother drunk most of the time. It was during these drinking binges that I would lie awake listening to him beating my mother up, and the beatings were getting worse and worse.

  Around this time I was sent to a naval school and the bullying I was suffering reached its peak. I was picked on mainly because of my surname being Irish and also because, unlike most of the other boys, I came from a poor background. The worst times were the games lessons, when we used to play rugby, which usually consisted of the ball being thrown to me and then everyone else steaming into me. On one occasion it got so bad that the weight of everyone on top of me caused me to become unconscious, on the brink of being suffocated. The teacher saw that it was going too far and, after he revived me, said that I could be excused rugby and do swimming instead. This was no better and I nearly drowned on one occasion when I was thrown into the deep end by a gang of boys who jumped in after me to prevent me from scrambling to the edge of the pool.

  Around this time, we moved home, which meant I had to leave the school, and I told my mother’s boyfriend about the bullying, to which he replied, “Anybody can do anybody, you just have to find a way.” This made a big impression on me and it is something that I have remembered over the years. In fact it has become my motto, and on many occasions I have passed this on to others.

  In 1974 my mother and her boyfriend married and the physical abuse he dished out to us all got worse and worse. He was drinking more than ever and when he was drunk he was very violent. Around this same time, something happened at school which was to become something of a turning point in my life. I noticed that some of the boys at school were picking on my sister, and whereas I would normally take the beatings from the bullies, something snapped at the sight of seeing my sister getting hurt. I threw myself at the gang, throwing punches and kicking out at anyone who was within range. The feeling of knowing one of the kicks and punches had connected spurred me on and although I ended up getting a right old kicking, they left my sister alone to concentrate on me. In a way I had protected her, and I felt great.

  I realised that I would have to learn to defend myself, from my stepfather and the bullies at school, so I started to learn judo. But after watching a junior karate champion on Blue Peter, I decided that was what I really wanted to learn. I threw myself into martial arts training and gained more and more confidence, until one day I was picked on by one of the school bullies – who got more than he bargained for. He probably had a go to impress his mates and certainly didn’t expect me to turn into a screaming psychopath ready to rip his face off. The sheer aggression within me obviously showed and he backed down. In fact he absolutely shit himself. Years of bottled-up anger and frustration was now releasing itself upon this shit of a boy who was suddenly not feeling so big any more. This was one of the most important lessons I ever learnt – how to win a fight without actually fighting. It’s all part of the psychology of fear.

  My self-confidence took a huge leap with this one incident and almost at once my fear of fighting against the bullies disappeared. I now found myself fighting back more and more and actually started winning some of the fights I was getting into. I started to get a reputation as a fighter and had over 300 fights before I even left school. I quickly realised that the easiest way to win a fight was to strike first – and hard.

  I left school and rented myself a flat, found myself getting into more and more fights and began hanging around with some lads who liked nothing better than a good ruck. We used to follow the Mod scene of the late Seventies and used to watch loads of bands such as The Jam, Secret Affair and The Chords. The highlight of the gig for us was the gang-fight which inevitably kicked off at some point during the night, usually involving tools of some description so that maximum damage could be inflicted. I look back at this time in my life and sometimes feel sick at the levels of violence I was enjoying. These fights attracted a lot of attention in the music papers and we became more organised. Our gang was known as “The Glory Boys”.

  My boyhood dream of achieving my karate black belt was soon to become a reality, but in strange circumstances. My instructor at the time was a right wanker who loved to show off if any young girls were in to watch. He was also known to be shagging some of his female students. One night he decided to use me as the mug for one of his demonstrations and went right over the top, landing heavy punches and kicking me full-force in the head. Karate etiquette would not allow me, as the student, to beat my master and I ended the exchange by bowing and going to change. He followed me into the changing room and tried to ridicule me and ended up offering to fight me on some waste ground. The alternative was for me to write a letter saying that I was afraid to meet him. I told him to fuck off, that I would be there and that I was going to beat shit out of him. My streetfighting ability plus my full-contact karate training gave me the confidence in myself that he would be on the receiving end of a right hammering.

  I was at the agreed spot waiting for him but he didn’t show and when I phoned his house it turned out that he was giving “private lessons” to a female student. I knew full well what that meant, and it turned out that she was the girlfriend of a mate of mine, another of the brown belts at the club. I phoned him at the girl’s house and he was full of shit, saying that he didn’t want to fight me and was sorry for what he’d said. Bollocks. To top it all, I received a phone call from the chief instructor saying that he’d heard I’d challenged my instructor to a streetfight. I arranged for the chief to visit me so that I could explain what really happened and when he arrived the following week, he’d already heard from other members of the club what went on and did not need an explanation from me. He saved the best until last, and invited me to squad training at his club with all the senior black belts, where I was awarded my black belt.

  Something I haven’t mentioned yet is that my sister had become heavily involved in the drug scene. This was particularly hard for me to accept, as I have always hated drugs and the way that they fuck people’s lives up. She’d started by sniffing glue and had “progressed” to heroin. By this time she’d developed a serious hab
it and was living in a squat with a bunch of low-life druggies. It was killing me inside to see my little sister being dragged down so low and I decided to deal with her problem the way I dealt with all of my problems: physically and head-on. I found out where the squat was and got a little team together. I knocked on the door, pretending that I was looking for somewhere to score. The door was opened by a huge skinhead who looked as though he hadn’t finished evolving. I hit him as hard as I’d ever hit anybody. Right on the snooze button. He went down like a sack of shit and we piled into the squat mob-handed. What followed was one of the biggest massacres I’ve ever witnessed. Everywhere you looked there were junkies with broken noses, ribs and arms lying in pools of their own blood. At one point I actually thought we’d gone overboard and killed one of them because he went into a coma. As we left, I told one of his mates to call an ambulance, and left thinking we’d be up on a murder charge. It turned out that he’d overdosed, which had caused him to go into the coma.