Wild Thing (5 page)

To be honest, I liked Tommy. He was a real character, and I enjoyed working for him. While employed at the garage, I got to know many of Tommy’s regulars, one of whom was George Gilbody, a trainer at Lowe House Boxing Club. George used to come into the garage in an old Standard Vanguard car that I used to service for him. Inevitably we talked about boxing, and I told him how much I was missing it. ‘Come down to Lowe House,’ George said. ‘Show me what you can do.’ I no longer had to attend night school, so I told George I’d love to go to his club.

George is undoubtedly one of the toughest guys I have ever met, and I have met more tough guys than most. His training techniques were merciless, but they made me hard, both physically and mentally. I am not exaggerating when I say this, but if somebody had hit me with an iron bar after a training session with George, I doubt very much if they would have put me down.

Confirmation, if any were needed, of George’s training credentials and ability can be found in his sons’ boxing records. George Jnr was ABA champion five times and British Olympic boxing team captain at the 1980 Moscow games. He fought boxing legend Tommy ‘Hit Man’ Hearns in a hotly disputed bout that kept him out of the British team for the Montreal Olympics in 1976. George’s other son, Ray, won three ABA titles in his career and was crowned British bantamweight champion in 1985. In 1979 and 1980 George Jnr and Ray were the only brothers ever to win senior ABA titles on the same night.

I started boxing on a regular basis for Lowe House. Before too long I began to have difficulty in getting sparring partners. The other boys at the club complained bitterly to George that I was really hurting them. In an effort to make me more powerful, rather than request I take it easy on the other lads, George invited professional boxers into the gym to spar with me. One of these was a local man named Johnny Chisnall, who had enjoyed a run of first-round knockouts. Chisnall was about eight years older than me, well built and a very experienced fighter. He had become a bit of a local hero, so much so that his photograph adorned the walls of most of the pubs in St Helens. As well as being successful in the ring he was a well-respected street fighter. Chisnall and a friend named McManus more or less ruled the roost in the town’s nightspots. Like me, Chisnall’s problem was his explosive temper. During his fight with Jack London (brother of the famous Brian London, who fought the likes of Muhammad Ali, Joe Bugner, Jerry Quarry, Henry Cooper, Billy Walker and Jack Bodell) Chisnall had knocked Jack down, jumped on top of him and continually pounded him until the referee had dragged him off. Unsurprisingly Chisnall was disqualified for his outburst. When he came to Lowe House to spar with me, I couldn’t wait to get into the ring. At first Chisnall seemed to be taking things easy with me, but after I caught him a few times his punching power increased. He backed me into the corner of the ring but he wasn’t hurting me. To prove the fact, I dropped my hands and taunted him by laughing and saying, ‘Hit me harder.’ I’ll never forget his face or his response: ‘You cunt! You drop your hands and I’ll knock you out.’

Undaunted, I kept my hands down and replied, ‘Come on then, do it.’ Chisnall came at me and we traded punches until eventually I drove him back out of the corner. I couldn’t believe it. Chisnall had knocked a lot of professionals out, he had this awesome reputation and here was young Lew doing him. George could see that our sparring session was developing into something far more sinister, so he jumped into the ring and separated us. After that Chisnall refused to spar with me again. He did come in the gym about a week later to collect some kit he had left there, and George called out to him, ‘Are you going to get in the ring with Lew? He needs somebody to spar with.’

Chisnall picked up his kit and replied, ‘Yeah, some other time,’ before heading towards the door.

George was shouting, ‘What, don’t you want to spar with my boy? Don’t you want to know my boy?’

But Chisnall just kept walking.

I saw Chisnall some time later around St Helens and said, ‘I thought you were going to come and do some sparring with me?’

He replied, ‘Yeah! I will, I will,’ but he never did turn up.

In time Johnny Chisnall and I became friends, and he would always offer advice before I fought. He went on to train young kids around St Helens who loved the sport, starting at the Britannia Club, followed by St Helens Amateur Boxing Club (ABC) and finally Lowe House Boxing Club. Johnny sadly passed away in 2005 after suffering from cancer.

George Gilbody’s enthusiasm and the faith he showed in my ability undoubtedly boosted my confidence. In the dressing-room George would get so excited and hyped up about a bout that he would often come close to fighting with my opponents’ trainers. Before I got into the ring, I would hear George shouting at the opposition, ‘Nobody can hurt my boy – nobody can hurt my boy.’ I could tell that he was really proud of me, and I would give my all not to let him down. If I did make mistakes, he wouldn’t hesitate to bollock me left, right and centre. He certainly had no qualms about shouting and screaming abuse at me, but nobody else was allowed to do so. I remember sparring with George one day. He hit me below the belt as hard as he could, and I immediately went down. My head smashed into the ring floor, which was made of hard wooden blocks. I felt no pain in my head because the pain between my legs was so intense. George was bending over me and asking, ‘Are you all right, you all right?’

Almost vomiting, I rolled onto my back and looked up at him through swirling unfocused eyes. ‘Fuck off, George. Please just fuck off,’ I mumbled. I tried to get back on my feet but I was unable to do so. The pain felt like a severe cramp that stifled any movement from my groin to my neck. Eventually I got to my feet and went home. The next morning the pain was so acute and the groin area so inflamed that all I could do was hobble to the toilet, piss blood and stagger back to my bed. My condition did not improve for at least a week.

George really was a dirty fighter, and he showed me all of the tricks: how to head-butt, bite and bang an opponent’s ears. Whenever I employed these tactics in the ring and was penalised, George would shout and scream, ‘You didn’t do it right! Do it on the referee’s blind side. Don’t let him see you.’ I was disqualified several times for head-butting and biting, but George never did advise me to stop; he just told me not to get caught.

Whether I was in the ring or out of it, I was never good at avoiding being caught. Then again I was never ashamed of my actions, so I didn’t put a great deal of effort into covering them up. Like all young lads I would play pranks on my workmates and have moments of forgetfulness while daydreaming. I was changing the wheel of a car in Tommy’s garage when all of a sudden the axle started to spin. I thought that it was one of the other mechanics playing a practical joke on me, so I shouted out, ‘Leave the axle alone, wanker. I’m trying to change a wheel.’

‘Who the fuck are you talking to?’ came the reply.

Within seconds I was being pulled away from a man I later learnt was Tommy’s son. Tommy hauled me into the office and told me that acts and threats of violence would not be tolerated in the workplace. A week later I drove a high-sided vehicle onto the ramp in the garage and, after activating the button that raised it up, I began to talk to my friend. Moments later we were showered with debris from the garage roof as the vehicle smashed into it. Tommy ran from the office, saw his customer’s vehicle wedged firmly in the garage roof and began ranting and raving at me. ‘One more chance,’ Tommy said. ‘One more chance and then you’re out of a job.’

I think I did well, considering the sort of person I was. Tommy thought otherwise as he chased me out of the tea room two days later. We had all been sitting in silence sipping our tea. Tommy had been reading a broadsheet newspaper that hid his upper body from our view. The temptation was too great for me. I picked up a cigarette lighter and set fire to the paper that he was reading. The flames engulfed the newspaper and threatened to engulf Tommy, who jumped up screaming. I ran from the tea room laughing and Tommy followed. He didn’t catch me and ended up having to shout the news at my back that I was sacked.

 

A GIRL ONCE SAID TO ME THAT IF ROMANCE EVER DIED, I WOULD BE TAKEN
in for questioning. Those were not her only words of wisdom that night. She actually said a lot of things, but they are far too explicit to repeat here. To say she said anything is actually wrong, because she spat the words at me rather than uttered them as she stormed off down the street. I have never been much of a ladies’ man. Romance is for fantasists; I am more of a grounded, practical, realistic creature – qualities females tend to label as ignorance, selfishness or stubbornness. I am not saying no woman has ever melted my heart. There has been the odd woman from time to time who captured my attention. Calling them odd is not being disrespectful; I say it in recognition of the outstanding patience and tolerance they showed in the face of extreme adversity. I was simply not the easiest guy to live with.

During the periods I found myself banned from the ring, I had to find something else to occupy my mind and time. I had various casual girlfriends over the years, but I never really hit it off with any of them. That was until I met Jean Baldwin, who turned out to be the first true love of my life. One evening I was driving through St Helens when I noticed a really pretty girl sitting on a bus that was picking up passengers outside the Co-op supermarket. I don’t know what came over me. I pulled up level with the window she was sitting at and started waving my arms frantically and mouthing, ‘Get off the bus.’ The girl began to laugh and looked away, so I jumped out of my car and banged on the window. The driver put his head out of his window, shouted, ‘Piss off, son,’ and drove away. The girl turned around, smiled at me and waved. I have never avoided a challenge and I was determined not to avoid this one. I jumped in my car, slammed it into gear and sped after the bus. I hadn’t thought about where this vision of beauty might reside, but I did begin to wonder when I had been driving for twenty minutes.

Throughout the journey we continued to wave and smile at each other like demented Cheshire cats. I was still gesturing for her to get off the bus, but she just kept laughing and breaking into the smile that had stolen my heart. After several miles I saw the girl stand up and start walking towards the front of the bus. At long last I was going to get my chance to talk to her. I pulled over, clambered out of the car and ran towards the bus. ‘My name’s Lew,’ I said. ‘What’s yours? Do you live around here? Do you want to come for a drive in my car?’

The girl just looked at me and laughed before turning and walking away. I went after her and asked if she would like to come out on a date. ‘Which question do you want me to answer first?’ she asked, still laughing. I told her I didn’t care which question she answered so long as she agreed to see me one night. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied sheepishly. ‘I don’t even know you.’

‘Exactly,’ I said, ‘and you never will unless you come out with me.’

‘My name is Jean. Pick me up from here at 7 p.m. on Wednesday. Bye, Lew.’

Before I had time to reply, Jean had turned and walked away up a nearby garden path. ‘See you at 7 p.m. then, Jean,’ I shouted after her. Driving home I felt elated. There was something about Jean that I couldn’t explain, but it made me feel extremely happy.

For our first date I took her to a pub called The Bear Paw at Frodsham, a small picturesque village located midway between Chester and Warrington. Jean told me that she was a stylist at a hairdressing salon called Leahy’s in St Helens. The salon had been in the news at that time because the proprietor, Edward Leahy, had put a loaded shotgun to his own head and pulled the trigger. His wife, according to the girls in the salon, had been having an affair and had said she was leaving him. If Mr Leahy hadn’t blown his own brains out, he may well have taken his wife’s life, her lover’s life or both. Love, Jean and I concluded, was a very powerful emotion that third parties should not become entwined in.

When I drove her home that night, we shared our first kiss and agreed to meet the following evening. From that day on we spent every available moment in one another’s company. We would go to the cinema, Chester Zoo or for long drives out to country pubs in my car. To say we were happy is an understatement; we were on cloud nine!

If Jean could not meet me for any reason, I would go for a drink with my mates. One of the places we used to socialise in was the Plaza in St Helens. When I say socialise, I actually mean fight. The place was full of heroes and bullies, all eager to knock out anybody who dared to question their fighting ability. After several particularly bloody battles the door staff told me that the management no longer wanted me on the premises. It was the first place I had ever been barred out of. I was pretty sure that it wasn’t going to be the last. Just before Christmas my friends said they were all going to the Plaza. There were a lot of works parties being held around town and they said all of the office girls would go there when the parties ended. ‘Come down, Lew, it will be a laugh,’ they said.

‘Maybe for you lot, but it won’t be much fun for me standing outside. I’m barred,’ I replied.

After much encouragement from my friends, who were adamant the door staff would never remember me, I agreed to go. As we stood in the queue, I could see the bouncers scanning the faces of everybody waiting to get in. ‘They have recognised me,’ I said to my friends. ‘They are pretending they haven’t, but when I get to the front they are going to tell me I can’t come in.’

My friends were laughing at my insecurity, but I just knew the bouncers had clocked me. As I put my foot on the step to enter the club foyer, a hand gripped my shoulder. ‘Lew, can I have a word with you?’ a bouncer said.

‘There’s no need,’ I replied. ‘I know I am barred. I will just go.’