by Nigel Benn
If you became bored in this ‘asylum’, you could pretend to be nutty yourself and, providing you were docile, they would listen to imaginary problems and ask ridiculous questions until you tired of the game. I was 14 but the way teachers talked down to us, I might as well have been six. ‘Now, what did you do at school today?’ they would ask sympathetically, wondering if you had difficulty understanding them.
I’d look around and see people staring into space. Some had their mouths open. Had the world gone mad? Sometimes it was hard to distinguish the staff from the pupils. The place spooked me out. It was weird. There were lots of kids from broken homes as well as some who’d been abused. I had one friend there, though, who reminded me of a Steve McQueen character. He seemed pretty normal and we always had a laugh. He also provided relief from the boredom by constantly getting into fights.
After six months in purgatory, I returned to the main school. Nothing had changed. I was back to my disruptive self within days and a tiresome flow of expulsion threats once more began dropping through our letterbox. It was as if the Benn family were sending a faulty product to school and it prompted a series of complaints: ‘Mr. Angry from Loxford School writes again …’ Obviously, they considered me to be one of a bad batch which they were desperate to reject. Anyway, one of my parents would always turn up at the school pleading my case and assuring them that the product was sound. Poor Mum and Dad. I gave them a tough time.
English and maths were my best subjects but I hated history and electronics. I’m proud to be British but I couldn’t relate to English history. It meant very little to me. What did Richard the Lionheart or Robin Hood have to do with me? I was sure I was a couple of shades darker than Robin Hood. I wanted to learn a lot more about my own background. History should be meaningful.
My family in the West Indies had been sold into slavery centuries ago. Was there a white trader or plantation owner in our bloodline? I was told a lot of them couldn’t keep their dicks inside their trousers. What were my family’s origins? What hardships did my ancestors endure as a result of slavery? Was this why we are a strong race today, because only the fittest could survive the harsh conditions imposed by their masters? These were significant historical matters which were not covered in our boring syllabus.
On the sports field, however, I came into my own. I was a natural athlete, the best in school at cross country, pole vaulting, the long jump and running 1500 metres.
My favourite subject was fighting, but that wasn’t taught in class. I learnt it in the streets and in clubs where they practised kung fu and other forms of martial arts. Bruce Lee was all the rage. He was my film idol. I was captivated and totally inspired by his fighting skills. I wanted to be Bruce Lee.
While the head teacher considered me disruptive and a danger to other pupils, my father argued that I was only letting off steam. What Dad wanted was for them to offer a constructive outlet for my inexhaustible energy. If I was to blame for my behaviour, then they were equally at fault for not recognising my potential and harnessing it to our mutual benefit.
Dad had always hoped that one of his boys would make something of his life. He had a sneaking suspicion that it might be me because he remembered how I had always insisted that I would one day be famous. Ever since I was a small boy, I had told him I would drive a Rolls-Royce or a Porsche when I grew up. And he was quite sure that if success came, it would be through sport.
Whatever ambitions he might have held for me, school was not the place to air them. Loxford didn’t know how to handle Nigel Benn. They didn’t seem to agree with Dad’s suggestions or his explanations about my boisterous behaviour. As a teenager, I did not appreciate my own strength. Dad, on the other hand, was well aware of it, and he was very worried about the damage I might inflict. After all, he had inside knowledge. He’d seen it all happen at home. My younger brother Anthony, a good-looking little boy, had had his head sliced open like a watermelon after a mock kung fu battle in which we used long pieces of wood. And although I’d dished it out on that occasion, I was always at the local hospital myself having parts of my body stitched together.
Once I was booted, smashed and slammed into a brick wall. Afterwards, my head was dented into a U-shape. It was my fault. I’d been too mouthy to Michael Davidson, whose mother owned the corner shop. He was really like a big brother and used to take us to football matches. He’d let us clear the shop of sweets for five pence but could occasionally play rough.
Once I started going out with the older boys, my confidence grew out of all proportion to my years. By 13, I’d become quite punchy and if someone dared to touch me, I’d knock their head off. If I was walking down Ilford High Street and someone offended me, they would never repeat it. The fact that I wasn’t scared of anyone worried my father. He told me to cool down. ‘You just don’t recognise your strength. It’s getting you a bad reputation. People are becoming frightened of you,’ he warned. I would fight anybody, no matter how big they were.
After he’d been summoned to school following yet another punch-up, Dad turned to me and said, ‘If you’ve got that much energy, get in the boxing ring and do it for real.’ That was quite prophetic because I had been in a ring only once in my life. My brother John had arranged for me to have a try-out when I was 12. They put me in with a guy who’d been boxing since he was five years old and apparently I panned him all round the ring. My opponent ended up with a blotchy-red complexion and the ‘fight’ had to be stopped. John told me then that I was a natural. ‘You’re a born fighter,’ he said. He took me to the gym a few more times but I showed little interest. I was much more into martial arts at the time.
Despite Dad’s advice, I could never imagine that, one day, I would make a career of boxing. I’d have been the last person to believe it. But perhaps the seed had been planted, along with a warning. While he acknowledged my skill as a fighter, Dad cautioned me, ‘You’ll be a dead man if you try it on me.’
In spite of that, he backed me all the way when another expulsion threat was made. Dad was sick of the letters complaining about me. He’d had enough. He steamed into the head teacher, ‘I’d like you to listen to me for a change. You’re picking on my son. You’re a racist. I’m sick of your letters. A lot of kids at your school don’t understand that Nigel has so much energy. He’s only playing with the kids. He doesn’t know his own strength.’
The headmaster was in no way a racist, and wasn’t very happy at being called one, but both he and Dad calmed down and shook hands after their heated exchange. My position was not vastly improved by the showdown. The letters stopped coming for a while but, before long, I was up to my old tricks again.
The main difficulty was that I had outgrown the kids at school. Even at home, because of my ability to look after myself, my parents had given me much greater leeway than they did my older brothers. I was allowed to stay out later than them, and more often, and they were less worried about me if I didn’t return on time. I also had a lot more street cred than my brothers, through mixing with much older boys.
Loxford School may not have liked me then but they would always remember me. In fact, I warm to the idea that even if I hadn’t been a success in the ring, they would still have remembered me. And if that memory may have been a little soured, it wouldn’t have bothered me in the least. I’d rather be a somebody than a nobody. I bet all the good boys who kept their heads down and swotted hard for A-levels have long been forgotten.
Old wounds are quickly healed when there is the chance to rub shoulders with fame. Had I been serving ten years for a crime — and there was a strong possibility of this at one stage of my life — my teachers would probably have nodded wisely and said, ‘We told you so. We knew that boy would come to no good.’ But as a world champion boxer they were proud to have me return as an old boy. When I was invited to address the school after leaving, they lined up to shake my hand. They even asked me to attend one of the teacher’s funerals. I still visit Miss Baker who stood by me all those years ago.
/>
After addressing assembly and chatting to various staff members, I wondered if any of them recalled the time when one of the teachers wanted me arrested. That happened a couple of days before my fifteenth birthday, when the local police received an urgent invitation to visit the school. They arrived with sirens blaring after being told that a pupil had obtained money using threats. I had devised what I considered a brilliant plan to acquire instant riches on my birthday.
Financial circumstances being as they were, I could not rely on sackfuls of presents from home so I turned my attention to my school chums. I figured that if everybody in school brought 50p as a birthday gift, it would be like winning a mini lottery. In the past, I had gently persuaded students to bring me small peace offerings. These included a bike, a skateboard and running shoes, all of them freely handed over. Nobody had the guts to say no to the toughest kid in school.
I was determined to make my fifteenth birthday memorable. By that age I’d figured out that people only give you presents if they love you, respect you or want something from you. I worked on the respect angle. Because my birthday was due on Sunday, I told everyone to bring a present before the weekend. Moreover, I let it be known that if respect was not shown in the form of a shiny 50p piece, those withholding might have serious regrets. The fear factor worked a treat. Silver coins rained from heaven. I’d hit the jackpot. A sack so full of money that I could hardly lift the thing. My mate helped to keep an eye on the stash which we hid under my desk. During the lesson, my mind concentrated on how I would spend this bonanza. Unfortunately, my spendthrift fantasies came to an abrupt end. One of the form mistresses called me out of the class.
Somebody had grassed and she accused me of extorting money with threats. I protested my innocence and tried to convince her that each coin was a gift for a popular classmate. When she called the police, my only regret was that they would seize the money. I’d never had so much. Watching it disappear was heartbreaking. Couldn’t they let me keep it a bit longer? Parting with it reminds me of the film Ghost in which Whoopi Goldberg briefly gets her hands on $4 million but is told to give it away to New York nuns collecting for charity. Like her, I could have screamed in despair.
I was brought to my senses when they told me they were phoning my dad. Have you ever seen a black man turn white? Well, that’s what happened next because, in spite of my protests, they called my father. As far as I was concerned, they might as well have asked me to start digging my grave. Dad managed to iron matters out but, for some reason, didn’t whack the living daylights out of me.
The centre of our universe was the Mocca Bar, a café in Ilford. When I was not at school I practically lived there, particularly over weekends. It is now called the Rainbow, which is under different ownership, and is a very different kind of place. It was owned by a real character called Jimmy. He was an Alex Higgins lookalike who would scream abuse at you if you gave him a hard time. In fact, you wouldn’t even have to abuse him. He was always screaming and shouting. He had a bad temper but a kind heart.
The Mocca was always a hive of activity. It was like the Old Vic pub in the TV soap EastEnders. Deals were made, meetings arranged and goods exchanged. Petty villainy was discussed over an orange juice or a weak cup of tea, after which the conspirators would play pinball machines or tug at an illicit joint in a dark corner.
However, there was little honour among thieves. Despite the beating I’d got over Auntie Shirley’s purse, I nicked another one in a jeans shop near Cranbrooke Park some time later. There was twice as much money in this one and I couldn’t believe my luck. Like an idiot, I boasted about my rich pickings at the Mocca Bar and, by the end of the evening, someone had pickpocketed me! I cried at the loss of my ill-gotten gains. It just shows that you should never show a thief you’ve got money.
Those days are well behind me, although I’ve never forgotten the crowd who used the Mocca. Half of them are jealous, envious that I’ve made a few bob and say I should go down there and give them some money and buy a few drinks. I’d like to shoot them instead. All they can do is ponce. Why don’t they get off their backsides and do something? I don’t respect dossers who won’t work or who won’t try to achieve something in life. No one has it easy. I had to get off my butt to succeed. Some of them have turned into old women.
I had my first experience with drugs at the Mocca Bar. I smoked some cannabis, which I didn’t particularly like, and later made the mistake of telling my girlfriend, Susan Marsh, about it. My best mate Colin and Susan were at my house at the time and I’d been a bit boisterous. Playing silly games, I smashed a milk bottle over Colin’s knee and glass went flying everywhere. Susan told me that if I didn’t stop mucking about she’d tell my dad that I smoked weed. I replied that she wouldn’t dare and then took her home, leaving the broken bottle on the floor. She and I had a fight on the way because she wanted to finish our relationship and I was very upset about it. In fact, she was quite physical in her approach. She kicked me in the shins and slapped my face.
I returned home, absolutely gutted, to be confronted by Dad. ‘What’s this then?’ he asked. Thinking he meant the broken glass, I offered to pick it up. ‘No,’ he said menacingly. ‘What’s this about draw? You think you’re a big man now?’ And with that he slapped me with his open hand. I swear it was as solid as being knocked down by a truck. He knocked me into tomorrow and battered me around, left, right and centre. It was time for a quick exit, I thought, and escaped back to Susan’s. I thought she’d been a real bitch and spilled the beans. In fact, she hadn’t said anything. Dad had overheard me boasting about the draw.
Nearly all of my older friends were as tough as hardened steel. My mentor was Carl Marston. I admired him so much that I allowed him to step into my brother Andy’s shoes. He not only looked like Andy but he reminded me of him in so many other ways. He was a survivor and an unbeaten street fighter. He was always wheeling and dealing and ducking and diving. He was a street man’s man. Handsome, fearless and cool as an ice cube.
Even stronger than Carl was Owen Johnson, whom we called Bully. I’d never do a round with Bully. He’d murder me. If I did have to fight him, I’d either leg it or shoot him, except that the bullets would probably bounce off him. He’s a doorman in the West End and I felt very sorry for anyone who picked a fight with him.
Sledge was another mate. His real name was Howard Brown and I’m not quite sure where he ended up. He used to make me cry by hammering my head with his fist. Sledge probably thought my body was a post and he was power-driving it into the ground. That might sound funny if you’re not on the receiving end, but I invariably was.
They were all hard men but we called those three the Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Carl was the good, Bully the bad, and Sledge the ugly.
The wider circle included Six-Finger Scotty (he was born with six fingers), Daniel and Nigel Nelson, Lloyd and Richard Ramsey, Carl Mosely, Mousey and Andy Coward. Most of them came from Manor House. Although I originally met them at the Caribbean Club in Ilford, we later used the Mocca as our meeting place.
The street gangs in those days consisted of a group of lads whose common bond was a particular sound system. There were lots around: the Kennedy system (to which I belonged), Quaker City, Small Axe, Saxon, Fat Man, King Original, Tubbys and lots of others. It was just like belonging to a football club except that there were fewer members. The music was street reggae. Shaka was my favourite. We didn’t like Bob Marley, he was too commercial.
Our reggae was not played on the radio, it was too underground. We made our own hardcore mixes which you get in garage music. Members of a sound system would make dub plates — their own exclusive mix. Every time a dub plate was played in a club, a roar of approval would go up from a section of the crowd. It was a bit like seeing your side score in football. If you annoyed members of another sound system, all hell would break loose. Someone would throw a bottle and the fuse would be lit for all out warfare. There were some serious players out there. For instance, you didn
’t mess with members of the Small Axe sound. Not if you valued your fingers. They were all armed with tomahawks.
The lasting image I have of Carl Marston is one of classic heroism as he bravely faced his enemy. It was a David and Goliath-style confrontation and reminded me of the Clint Eastwood classic The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Carl was my black knight. He was so impressive I’d put him on a pedestal way above most of our group. The Kennedy posse, to which I belonged, had gone to a packed dance hall in Mile End, east London and were about to leave the club when a massive black guy, who looked nearly 7ft tall, and belonged to another sound system, took a dislike to us.
He challenged Carl. Not with words, but with body language. The two eyed each other up. Carl was my height, about 5ft 10in and nearly a foot shorter than the oaf. He must have been expecting Carl to turn tail and leg it, but Carl just stood there, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth like Clint Eastwood. He was calm and intent. He was wearing a long beige coat, the bottom part of which he now swept behind his back with both hands, to reveal an axe.
He kept that pose, looking as if he was about to have a gun fight. His feet, slightly apart, were weighted to the front, ready for action. He would have chopped that hulk to pieces if he so much as moved a muscle against any of us. I’d never seen anything like it in my life. It was better than the movies. The big guy backed down. He knew he’d met his match. I felt proud to be in Carl’s company. Afterwards, a massive fight broke out between different groups. Fingers were lost to choppers, and heads were smashed in. I was not to be found anywhere. I’d legged it back home.
