Gangsters, Guns & Me - Now I'm in Eastenders, but once I was on the run. This is my true story

by Foreman, Jamie

‘What – Freddie’s son?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, why didn’t you fucking say so? You’d have been out of here five hours ago!’

  Dad was called down to the station. When he saw me, he did a good job of acting angry, but only for the benefit of the police officers. ‘You know your mother could get nicked, you taking her car without permission,’ he shouted, making sure he gave me a wink while they weren’t looking. A few minutes later I was out.

  It turned out that if I’d given my name the police would have given me a ‘producer’ form, which gave you seven days to produce your documents. Because someone in Dad’s firm always had a desk sergeant ‘straight’ somewhere, Dad would be able to pass the ticket on with a little something, usually a pony – £25. It would be entered in the book that you had ‘produced’ and that would be that.

  It was a simple system, and on many a future occasion a desk sergeant earned more than a nice little drink out of me. Back in those days touches like that were one of the perks of being a desk sergeant. The money helped them out considerably with the wages they were on. Times have changed and they can’t get away with it any more, which is a shame for both them and us. A harmless feature of a bygone era.

  One day Dad was due to meet Buster Edwards – one of the Great Train Robbers and also my godfather – at his flower stall in front of Waterloo Station. I pulled up across the road and waited in the car while Dad went off. He’d only been gone a few minutes when the next thing I knew he was running back towards the car. Wondering what was going on, I started the engine. Dad jumped in and I pulled away sharpish.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked as we sped off.

  ‘Just go around the block.’

  I did as I was told, drove down to Stamford Street, round the block and back down Waterloo Road. Alongside Buster’s pitch I saw a man lying unconscious on the pavement. A few confused passers-by were looking on. Dad looked on too, but there was no confusion on his part – it was him who’d knocked the bloke out. It was another case of Dad not being able to let a bully get away with it. The guy was a big, frightening lump who’d taken to walking up to local office workers, young men and women, shoving pens in their hands, and demanding money for them. Buster didn’t like him, and had often told him to clear off, and by coincidence he’d shown up again at a time when Dad and Buster – two men with a hatred of liberty takers – were on a meet. Noticing him walking towards them, Buster explained the situation to Dad, and once again told the bloke to sling his hook. But the stupid bastard wasn’t having any of it. Instead, he glared at my dad and asked him what the fuck he was looking at. Big mistake. With what Buster had told him adding fuel to his fire, Dad lured the bloke on and laid him spark out with one punch. Now, five minutes later, he was still out cold. We waited in the car until we were certain he had come around, then drove off. The bloke’s pen-selling days were over, and he was never seen in the area again. I had to admire Dad for taking direct action against such an undesirable character.

  The first time I really saw Dad go to work with his hands was on a night out at the Bloomsbury Centre. They were to hold a bareknuckle fight at the Continental Hotel, and on this occasion boxing legends Roy ‘Pretty Boy’ Shaw and Lenny ‘The Guv’nor’ McLean were about to go head to head. As it turned out, most of the night’s action happened outside of the ring.

  All the chaps were there. It was like the gathering of the clans, a roll-call of London’s underworld, and the atmosphere was electric. It was intoxicating to walk into this almost Shakespearean environment and see my father being greeted with such respect, like he was a lord returning from the wars. We took our seats and waited for the gladiatorial champions to do battle: Roy Shaw was our man. The night was to decide who was the best street-fighter.

  A couple of the early fights on the bill had already taken place when I began to sense that something wasn’t quite right. People were coming to my father and passing messages; Dad wasn’t watching the fights any more, and he and Ronnie Oliffe – seated at his side, just like the old days – were becoming agitated. I asked what all the fuss was about. Apparently, some months before, my uncle Fred had been involved in an altercation with a member of a good family from North London. There had been a fight outside the A & R. Fred had not known who this person was but it was clear there would be consequences. I loved Fred and his wife Jeanie, a beautiful woman and one of my favourite aunts. Fred unfortunately passed away several years ago. He had fought for his country in Malaysia with great distinction and is sorely missed. He was my mum’s brother and had always been there for us while Dad was away. Ironically the person he had the run-in with, Roy, is now a very good friend of mine.

  They were a strong firm who turned up that night, spotted my uncle Fred sitting near them and wanted to have a row with him there and then. But Ronnie Knight told Roy – who has the highest respect for Dad, as we do for him and his family – that Fred was Dad’s brother-in-law, and not to take any action. The grievance would be sorted out amicably after the fights. This suited everyone, as neither side wanted any bad blood between them. But unfortunately some of the allies of the North London firm jumped the gun before they got Ronnie’s message and attacked my uncle.

  I saw it kick off across the ring.

  ‘Dad, that’s where Uncle Fred is sitting,’ I said.

  Dad leaped to his feet – Ronnie at his side, me behind – and we charged to my uncle’s aid. Dad’s entire firm followed right behind us. When we reached my uncle, Dad really went to work. I’d never seen it kick off on such a scale. I saw someone hit the deck, then another and then another.

  In my life I’ve seen all kinds of violence – football violence, pub brawls, you name it – but when you see people who have grown up in the underworld, people who really know how to look after themselves and can really punch – it’s something else.

  Suddenly, this huge mass of a man was shaping up to my dad. He had ginger hair, he was six foot five and weighed in at around 17 stone. It was him who had started it all. Dad squared up to him.

  ‘Do you want a bit of me?’ said Dad.

  ‘Come on then, I’ll have some of you,’ the guy growled back.

  That was it. Dad glanced over the ginger man’s shoulder – a split-second distraction that just unsettled him – then stepped forward, threw a straight right and caught him right on the button. When the punch connected, it sounded like two trains shunting. The ginger guy’s eyes hit the top of his head and he fell to the floor, ironing-board straight. He got some of Dad all right. What a punch!

  There was fighting everywhere. My uncle Mick stood toe to toe with opponent after opponent before laying them out, and Dad and Ronnie Oliffe were dropping people left, right and centre. Watching Dad and Ron together was incredible. They’d fought off many challengers over the years and had their technique down to a fine art. There was a kind of telepathy between them – Dad attacking, Ron minding his back. It was carnage, like a saloon brawl in a cowboy movie. Chairs flew through the air and were being used as weapons. I must admit I used one myself to make sure that, once down, nobody got up. The finale came when my father pinned another big lump against a wall and pummelled him to the floor with fists and a chair.

  When it was over, the scene looked like the aftermath of a battle. Bodies were strewn on the floor and my dad and his firm stood victorious. It had been a good old-fashioned ‘straightener’. No knives, just fists and reputations. There was even a film crew – there to film the night’s boxing – who captured the whole thing. I am clearly visible putting a chair about in that film.

  People had climbed into the ring to escape the mêlée, and by the time it was over there were more people in the ring than out of it. Even Lenny McLean had got up there to keep himself out of harm’s way – I think he knew there were a few people around who would have loved to have copped for him too. Roy Shaw had looked on and I remember him saying the punch Dad threw at the ginger guy was the best punch of the night. From a man as formidable as Ro
y, that’s a true compliment.

  The job was done, and the ginger guy’s lot were in pieces all around the ring. Our firm left the devastation behind, and walked off quietly before the Old Bill showed up. We adjourned to a private club in Soho that Dad had a share in with Jimmy Hussey, one of the Great Train Robbers. Strange as it may sound, it wasn’t until we got to the club that the adrenalin rush kicked in. The chaps were always calm when they went to work; the buzz came when the post-fight discussions began. There were a few sore heads, and a lot of laughter, as they bathed their cuts in the bathroom.

  That night I saw Dad knock out four or five people, and I remember looking at him in awe and realising just how far he was prepared to go to set a situation straight. Another firm had taken a liberty with one of Dad’s own, and justice had been done. I’m proud to say that I have never seen my father use violence where it wasn’t called for, never seen him attack without cause, and for that I have nothing but respect. I make no attempt to romanticise what to most seems like a lawless and sometimes savage faction of society. I’m merely describing events and the attitudes of those who took and take part in them. Like it or loathe it, the world my dad moved in back then was as much a part of London life as any other.

  After such huge clashes, comebacks are often on the cards. Dad made it perfectly clear to all concerned that he felt the matter was closed, and that anyone who felt differently would be dealt with swiftly and decisively. It seemed nobody wanted any more trouble, as we heard nothing more from the troublemakers. As it turned out, the family – whose ‘friends’ had jumped the gun without their consent – are very close to us now, and good friends.

  The dust had settled and it was back to work as usual. Dad was grafting hard to build up funds again, and pretty soon a business opportunity came our way that, since it was totally legitimate, I was more than happy to get involved in. Thanks to a £10,000 investment from Micky Regan and Ronnie Knight, Dad and his close friend Ted Dennis were able to start a new venture.

  Dad and Ted bought 60 pool tables and set about asking landlords all over London if they wanted a table in their pub. The deal was simple: we installed and maintained the tables, and collected the money from them fortnightly. The landlords received half the takings, and we took the rest – a straight-down-the-line, 50-50 arrangement. In addition to this, any pub with one of Fred’s pool tables received protection from Dad – if the landlord had any trouble in his pub, Dad would sort it out.

  It was the kind of thing people could call a protection racket, but in truth it was protection without the racket. Nobody was forced to take a table, but hardly any of the governors said no because they knew the value of having Dad’s name associated with their pub. Those who said ‘no thanks’ were left be. In the end, we were taking phone calls from publicans all over London asking us if we’d put a table in, and I think that says a lot.

  I loved helping Dad out with the pool rounds. The pool-table business was pretty new and proved very lucrative. Our collection rounds were meticulously organised – every collection route was planned around our stomachs! Where to stop for lunch was the question. One week it would be pie and mash at Cookes in the Cut at Waterloo, the next the Chop House in Farringdon Road or the Grange café in Grange Road near Tower Bridge. Soon we were making so much money that – thanks to machines jam-packed with 10p coins – we had to collect more and more often. Before we knew it takings had hit £3,000 a week, and Mick and Ronnie got their money back. Dad was making good legitimate money and everybody was happy. Apart from the police, that is.

  One of our landlords phoned us saying that the police had come in and confiscated our pool table. This was closely followed by another call, then another. We were livid: the fucking police were messing with a bona fide business, but why? Once nicked, the tables were being stored at Camberwell Police Station. Someone was taking the piss, and that someone turned out to be our dear old friend DS Troon. It was almost too good to be true – or should I say Troon? He was back, this time in charge of an operation attempting to bring Dad’s business to its knees.

  Dad and his solicitor presented Troon with all the paperwork relating to the business, including shop receipts for all the pool equipment, and told him to reinstall the tables unless he wanted to face a charge of robbery. Not for the first time, Troon was lost for words and had to stand down. The tables were justly returned, and my father took great pleasure watching two exhausted, out-of-breath policemen straining under the massive weight of the tables as they moved them back to various pubs. Troon had taken another pot shot at Dad and missed. Oh how sweet revenge can be!

  The pool-table business put enough money in our pockets for Dad to begin investing elsewhere. In partnership with his brother George, he acquired a bar in the Ellerslie Hotel (now called the Astral) at the top of Sydenham Hill in Crystal Palace. Originally we had been asked to come on board by an old friend, a lovely lady called Jan. The place had a lounge bar that we turned into a wonderful watering hole for after the pubs had shut every Sunday afternoon. My uncle George always made sure the complimentary roast potatoes were heavily salted – ‘Makes ’em drink more,’ he’d say. My brother Gregory worked the bar and I kept him stocked up, collected the glasses and schmoozed the punters. We had some great times up there. It wasn’t long before – due to public demand – we were open Thursday, Friday and Sunday lunchtimes. We eventually turned the basement into a nightclub and it became a hot little venue. I was the DJ. Business boomed, and much later Dad ended up buying a share of the hotel and selling it for a tidy profit.

  You might think that helping Dad out wouldn’t have left much time to pursue acting, but far from it. Alongside my involvement with the family business, I was really cracking away and felt like my career was progressing nicely. Unfortunately, my work with the National had been over for a while, but what a great start it had been. That formative experience gave me the confidence to approach auditions with a ‘if you don’t like what you see, it doesn’t bother me’ attitude – that’s the naivety of youth!

  If I didn’t get a part I could always spend more time with my dad, which I loved, but amazingly my approach to auditions seemed to be paying off. I was nicking almost every part I went for and, without wanting to blow my own trumpet, I do remember several occasions when I turned up to an audition only to hear a groan from the other hopefuls go round the room. All too often (for them, anyway!) it seemed I had the face that fitted the role, and I’m proud to say that sometimes I beat a few more well-known names to a part.

  My success, I believe, was partly down to my being a good talker, and mature for my age. I never told lies or tried to say what I thought people wanted to hear: I was just myself, and directors seemed to lap it up. Not to say that I got everything, of course. One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned over the years is never to worry about what you don’t get. Don’t take it personally – if you don’t have what they’re looking for, there isn’t much you can do about it, end of story. Be yourself, trust yourself, and sooner or later you’ll walk into the right part. But always be prepared to give anything a go and push yourself, as sometimes the results will take even you by surprise.

  I’ll never forget the time I went for a part when the script stated ‘six-foot, pretty, blond boy’. Now I am five foot eight, dark-haired and not all that pretty – more of a character actor’s face. But I can’t have been that bad-looking – I was once featured as a page-four ‘Cor!’ in a teenagers’ weekly magazine. Anyway, I managed to turn heads at the audition and make them think about the role in a totally different way. I was more gobsmacked than any of the six-foot pretty boys must have been when it was announced I’d been picked for the part.

  My first decent break came when I landed the role of a young boy in a sweeping drama made by London Weekend Television called Holding On. I loved it. It was about the life of Charlie Wheelwright, an East End docker, played by Michael Elphick. The series covered Charlie’s life from the age of nine until he was an old man – a span of
80 years. I played Charlie when he was 14 in 1913, and Michael took over once the character grew up. It was a convincing bit of casting because Michael and I did look pretty similar back then.

  The script called for my Charlie to be seduced by a kept woman, played by the beautiful Lois Baxter. The day we did the bed scene was very nerve-racking. I was only about 17, she was topless and I was to lie in her arms. Her first line was ‘They must feed you on raw meat’ – very flattering.

  There were about 40 people watching us, and I was pretty nervous and not used to being stared at in such compromising positions. Lois was great and handled the whole thing with wonderful dignity. She really helped me through it, and by the time we were done I was happy as Larry.

  In another scene I had to kiss the lovely Linda Robson. But I cut up rough as I spot she’s brought along her mate, played by Pauline Quirke. It was the first time I worked with the girls and we are still friends all these years later. They both went on to have great success with the hit sitcom Birds of a Feather.

  I’d like to add that I was very sad when we lost Michael Elphick to his terrible addiction to alcohol. He was a gentle and very sensitive man, and he really took me under his wing during the making of Holding On, and often took me to the best drinking holes frequented by the acting fraternity – my favourite was Jerry’s Club in Shaftesbury Avenue. I would often get a little sozzled during rehearsals, much to the consternation of the producer, my old mate Paul Knight. Mike would tell Paul my condition wasn’t his doing, and that I could drink him under the table, but I think Paul just despaired of the both of us. Mike had fantastic acting qualities. He had a strength, a gentleness, an everyman quality that made people feel safe when they were watching him. He found great popularity with Boon, although my favourite of his was the BBC’s fantastic Second World War comedy series Private Schulz, written by Jack Pulman. If Mike could have only kicked the booze, he would have graced us with so much more. Thankfully we met up shortly before he died. We worked on a very lucrative voice-over for a major computer company, and afterwards went on to Jerry’s club for a drink and a lovely long chat, just like old times. He told me he had followed my progress, which was lovely of him, and I had a chance to say goodbye.