The bombing became an issue for me at school when I got into an argument with my history teacher. We were studying the Second World War and the teacher made a comparison between the brave RAF pilots who flew bombing missions over Germany and the IRA cowards who planted bombs in pubs. I said that in my opinion it did not take a lot of courage to fly over Germany in the dark and press a little button to bring death to the unseen men, women and children below. Planting a bomb in a pub, on the other hand, where you would have to look into the eyes of those around you - especially women's eyes - knowing you were going to kill every one of them required either great courage or inhuman coldness. I was not supporting what the Provos had done: it had shocked and disgusted me. In fact, it had turned me completely against the IRA - the effect it had on a lot of one-time republican sympathisers - and I hoped the perpetrators would themselves die horribly. However, for all that, I still couldn't regard them as cowards - and that was the main point I wanted to make. I suppose an underlying point was that people never looked at the atrocities committed by their side, but always rushed to condemn those committed by the enemy. But I had hardly chosen the best time to express such opinions and I caused a huge row. I felt I had made the teachers hate me even more than they already did.
Not that I cared: their opinions meant nothing to me.
4
The Fall Of The Tyrant
By the time I was 15 I had come to regulate myself by my own rules: laws enforced by police officers as part of what I saw as the no-justice system had become irrelevant to me. I had developed my own warped values — and my behaviour soon became even more warped.
I started getting involved in huge gang fights against rivals from other areas. Our main rivals were from a suburb of Wolverhampton called Tettenhall. Sometimes there would be as many as 200 of us battling in parks and on waste ground. When people began to get seriously hurt the police became involved and numbers dwindled to a hard core of about 30 on each side. The younger boys would pass on messages arranging the venue for the next encounter. I knew someone vaguely associated with the Tettenhall gang and sometimes he would give me advance warning of planned ambushes. He told me one evening that members of the Tettenhall gang would be at a particular disco: they planned to come looking for some of us afterwards. I decided to pre-empt them. I got a friend called Cyril to take me to the disco on his motorbike. We set off on our mission, not knowing quite what we would be up against. We walked into the darkened disco: the flashing strobe lights momentarily illuminated a group of the Tettenhall boys at the bar. They saw us at the same time. The DJ knew me and came over for a brief chat before returning to the stage. As he passed the Tettenhall boys they threw drink over him and jostled him. I knew they were hoping to provoke me into doing something. One of their number kept looking over at me, so I mouthed the word "wanker" at him. He came bowling across the dance floor and I went to meet him halfway. We had almost reached each other when I took a step back and kicked him as hard as I could between his legs. Before he had slumped to the floor the place erupted into violence. Cyril and I were fighting side by side as hard as we could, but we were completely outnumbered and I was sure we were going to get a hiding. Girls were screaming and the lights had been turned on. However, for some reason, one of their gang turned and ran; this led to a collective collapse of nerve and they all followed him. We chased them to the exit and stood by the doors to make sure they did not come back in. I could see two stewards putting onto a stretcher the boy I had kicked: he appeared to be gasping for breath. As they carried him out Cyril picked up a heavy pint glass and smashed it across the head of the outstretched patient. The stewards were too astonished to say or do anything. We just walked out of the hall and away.
A few weeks later I was walking through Tettenhall with Cyril and three others when we came across a gang of about 25 of our rivals. I knew if we ran then some of us would probably get caught and beaten. I told everyone to run at the Tettenhall gang who were about 400 yards down the road. At first they stood their ground and looked confident, but as we got closer I could see their courage fading. A few at the back turned and ran which panicked the rest: all but one of them took off up the street. I told Cyril and a boy called Des to get the remaining boy while three of us chased the stampeding herd. They had fear on their side and had got too far away for us to catch them. I ran back to find Cyril and Des fighting the solitary Tettenhall boy. Cyril was punching him in the head, while Des was trying to kick the boy's legs from under him. But he was still giving as good as he was getting. We were in a residential street and I knew someone would soon be calling the police. I had to end the fight quickly. I ran to a doorstep and picked up two empty milk bottles, then ran back and smashed one of them over the boy's head. He released his grip on Cyril and clutched his head. I smashed the other bottle over his head and he fell to the floor. I started to kick him, but he was a hard little bastard and managed to struggle to his feet and fight back. One of the terraced houses near us had been converted into a shop: its front door was one complete pane of glass. As we grappled I turned the boy so his back was towards the glass door and then with all my strength I charged him into it. With a loud crash he went straight through and lay sprawled on the floor, not moving. I picked up a metal "Paraffin Sold Here" sign and threw it on top of him. Then we ran off.
My passion for Manchester United grew to the point where I used to live for Saturdays when I would follow the team around the country. I loved the football on the pitch, but the hooliganism off the pitch added greatly to my enjoyment. I engaged in countless running battles across the terraces or in town centres, getting high on the feelings of power and unity that came from taking part in mob violence. I remember once there were about 1,000 of us surrounded by police on Blackpool beach. We wanted to break out of the cordon: we started throwing bottles and then, as one, ran at the police. They hesitated for a moment before turning and running, pursued by us. The moment was captured by a photo on the front page of the local evening newspaper which was on sale at the train station by home-time.
Most of my Codsall friends supported the local team, Wolverhampton Wanderers. I would go with them to what I regarded as good games, that is, ones where trouble seemed guaranteed, such as a local derby against a team like Birmingham City. We would catch an early train to avoid the crowds and police; we wouldn't wear scarves, badges or football shirts. Anyone looking at us would have thought we were just a group of young lads on a day out. Before the game we would rob sports or clothes shops by the method known as "steaming". This would involve choosing a shop with no more than two assistants; two of us would take up their attention by posing as potential customers, then the rest would steam into the shop, fanning out and grabbing whatever they could before running out. We would stash our heist in lockers at Birmingham New Street Station - not far from the site of the pub bombs - before continuing the day's recreation by hunting down rival supporters. I loved the sounds of glass smashing, people screaming, police sirens. The uncertainty of the outcome would keep me alert and pull me violently through the scale of emotions: euphoria as the hunter, panic as the hunted, but all the time a constant flow of adrenaline. Mayhem and disorder had become the sources of my joy.
As we got older we used to carry craft knives with us - but with a vicious twist: we would put two blades in the holder, place a matchstick between them and tighten up the case. When the victim was slashed he would suffer two identical wounds only the thickness of a matchstick apart. This meant surgeons would be unable to stitch the wounds and the victim would be left with a horrible thick scar, usually across his face. On the way to a night match against Birmingham City our gang encountered a group of rival supporters and we began fighting. One of them turned to flee and was slashed across the back. The razor blades tore through his clothing, opening him up from the top of his neck through his shoulder blade to the middle of his back. He collapsed immediately, blood seeming to spurt everywhere. We ran, suddenly terrified he would bleed to death. We swap
ped clothing to confuse attempts to identify us and stood apart during the match. It was not the first or last time we believed we had seriously injured or even killed someone.
Another time Stan and Hughie called at my house to see if I'd go with them to a Wolves versus Chelsea game. I didn't want to go because my shoes had fallen apart. The pittance my father gave my mother barely fed us; it certainly didn't clothe us. Indeed, the only time I ever had anything decent to wear was when I had stolen stuff. Otherwise most of the clothes I owned were like rags: they came either from jumble sales or were bought with Social Security vouchers. I asked Bill, a neighbour my age, if I could borrow a pair of his. He agreed to lend me a pair of his dad's extremely unfashionable slip-on plastic "pan shiners". Stan and Hughie mocked me as we made our way to the ground.
We went first to the train station to see if we could catch any Chelsea stragglers. We saw two hanging about. We walked over to them. They were several years older than us and asked if we knew where they could get a ticket for the game. I said yes and we all walked off towards the ground. Stan, Hughie and I had not planned anything as such, but by this stage in our badness we could almost communicate telepathically. We took them across some waste ground and Stan, who was walking at the rear, picked up a piece of wood and, without saying anything, whacked one of the men across the side of the head. He collapsed to the ground, dazed but not unconscious. We made the other Chelsea fan get on his knees, then we ordered both to empty their pockets. We took their money. I noticed that the taller one was wearing a newish pair of Doctor Marten's boots. I asked him what size he took. He said: "Nines. Why?" I said that was my size and told him to take the boots off. I put them on and gave him Bill's dad's pan-shiners. Stan took the man's Harrington jacket. Then I picked up their train tickets and tore them up in front of their faces before leaving. I was a loathsome bastard and I knew it. I was satisfying the seething anger inside me by inflicting misery on others.
By the time I was 161 was completely reckless. I didn't seem to care what I did, who I did it to or whether I got caught. Hughie, Stan and I were in Birmingham one day walking around the market area below the Bull Ring shopping centre. Stan used a public toilet, but when he came out he told us a man of about 40 had asked him if he wanted to go for a drink. We knew the man did not want to discuss Stan's academic progress. We reasoned, therefore, that if we robbed the perv he wouldn't go to the police. Stan agreed to lure the man to a place where we could jump him.
We watched as Stan and the man walked out of the toilet and into a nearby cafe. Hughie and I kept walking past the window: we could see Stan inside drinking tea and eating egg and chips. We became worried that Stan would spend all the man's money before we had a chance to rob him of it. But after a while they left the cafe and walked towards a nearby church. We followed. The man was well-built, so I armed myself with half a house-brick which I planned to hit him over the head with if he resisted. I put the brick in my coat pocket, but hoped I wouldn't have to use it. When they got to a relatively quiet area in the churchyard I walked up to the man. He stank of stale smoke and seemed to tower over me, which undermined my confidence. I took out a pound note and asked him if he could change it as I needed to telephone my parents urgently. I knew he wouldn't let down a boy in need. He took out his wallet and opened it to get at the coin pouch, giving me in the process a flash of a thick wad of notes. I had been feeling unsure, slightly panicky even, but the sight of the money bolstered my nerve. He counted the change out into my hand, then as I thanked him and handed over the note I purposely dropped it on the ground. He bent down to pick it up and I kicked him full in the face. He fell to his knees: I stood back and kicked him again, this time in the side of the head, while Hughie and Stan did the same. The man shielded himself with his hands, but did not fight back, which was just as well for him because I had the brick in my hand. Stan grabbed his wallet and we ran as the man shouted: "Help me! Help me! Help me!" Nobody took any notice: they never did.
We ran to nearby New Street Station and jumped on the first train to Wolverhampton. Once it started moving Stan took out the wallet and opened it. The thick wad of money turned out to be sheets of newspaper cut to the same size as money with three one-pound notes on top: it had certainly acted as bait for us young boys, though not perhaps in quite the way its owner had anticipated.
The next day Hughie and I skipped school and went back to look for more lucrative targets. We started following two boys who looked our own age. They began walking down a flight of stairs into the Queensway subway. I grabbed the taller of the two and told him to hand over his money or be thrown down the stairs. The boy's face was alight with terror, but he refused to give me anything. I took out a knife and said I'd stab him. He and his friend emptied their pockets and handed over a roll of money tied with an elastic band. The boy kept saying: "It's me mum's fucking gas money." We ran to the cafe in the market and counted the money: £30. We treated ourselves to egg and chips before setting off to look for other victims. We walked like predators through the maze of subways around the Bull Ring. We crossed into an open space between subway entrances and as we reached the mid-point we saw the two boys we had just mugged. They were not alone: there were three or four men with them who started running towards us when the boys pointed us out. Running was pointless: they were too close and we were going to have to fight. I quickly threw away the money. Hughie hit the man who reached us first. I tried to pull him onto the grass, near where I had thrown the money. But the other men were upon us and their punches were soon landing on our heads. It took a few seconds for me to realise they were shouting: "Police! Police! Stand still!
You're under arrest." I felt my arms being forced up my back. I glanced over at Hughie: he was in the same position. One of the detectives got out his radio and called for a car to take us to Digbeth Police Station.
The desk sergeant called us animals and said we were not fit to breathe the same air as decent people. He read us our rights and took down our details. Then we were put in separate cells. My cell had an arc of blood sprayed up the wall and the single tatty blanket stank of piss and vomit. A few hours later our mothers arrived: my brother Jerry had driven them to Birmingham. They looked distraught. We had been taken out of our cells while the desk sergeant filled in the forms for bail. He said: "Robbery - at your age! I'll tell you now -you'll be banged up for murder one day." Both our mothers were upset and angry; the journey home in the car was one of the longest drives of my life. I felt awful for upsetting my mother, but I didn't feel guilty about committing the crime, only regret at getting caught. I was sure we were going to be sent to a detention centre, but at the end of the judicial process the judge merely gave us "strict Supervision Orders". In reality, this meant that once a fortnight Hughie and I had to go to a council building where we sat in a room with other local hoodlums while waiting our turn to be called into an office and asked fatuous questions by a probation officer: "How are you? How's school? How are things at home? Are you keeping out of trouble?" I often used to wonder what they would have said if I had told them the truth: "Well, actually, I'm doing much the same as I was before - although I've cut down on the mugging." Sometimes while waiting our turn we would break into the probation officers' cars and fill them with rubbish. Occasionally the police would come and give us talks about the latest advances in crime detection. The burglars among us, in particular, found many of their tips extremely useful, but we all learned something to help make us better criminals. They even arranged for us to play football against a team of police cadets. We criminals turned up in working boots and started kicking lumps out of the cadets. The referee abandoned the match at half-time when the cadets refused to come out for the second half. We stood jeering on the pitch until they brought on a police dog and made us sit down.
At the end of the summer term of 1976 I left school with few qualifications. I was sixteen. I had little fear of, or respect for, anything or anyone. Only my father continued to have the power — physical and psy
chological - to turn me into a frightened little boy. But that was not going to last much longer. He could see what he had turned his sons into - and he must have known the day of vengeance was coming. In fact it came in August 1976. He came home, drunk as usual, and started beating my mother in the kitchen. My brother Paul and I were in the front room. We heard the familiar sounds. Paul looked at me and I looked at him and we both just got up and ran into the kitchen. Paul shouted at my father: "Leave her alone, you fucking bastard!" My father lurched towards Paul and punched him. Paul snapped: he grabbed my father by his hair with one hand and with the other began punching him in the face with an unstoppable ferocity. I stood and watched as Paul went berserk, punching and kicking until my father lay on the floor, his face a bloody mess. Everything went quiet; the only sound was of Paul breathing heavily from his exertion. I suppose we all expected my father to get to his feet and inflict violent punishment on us for this outrage, but he just stayed on the floor. He didn't move for a little while, then slowly pulled himself up. Paul was ready for more, and I was ready to help him, but we could all see that something had changed. The fight had gone out of my father. He did not say anything. He just slouched off to bed. As he walked past me I spat at him. He didn't respond. His face gave nothing away, but he had the air of a tyrant who knew his time had come.
The following morning my father got up for work as usual and told my mother he would meet her that afternoon outside the Marks and Spencer store in Wolverhampton. He said he was going to give her some money to buy some shopping. He left the house before Paul and I got up. In the afternoon my mother, penniless as usual, had to embarrass herself by borrowing money off a neighbour to get the bus into town. She waited for him for two hours, but he never turned up. She had to walk all the way home.
Soldier Of The Queen Page 4
