Born to Fight--The True Story of Richy 'Crazy Horse' Horsley (15 page)

My love affair with Scotland continued when I took Linda up there for a holiday. After finishing a cable job in Cardiff at the Millennium Stadium, the work had dried up and a few of us had got laid off for a while. In my first week off I took a trip down the bookies, and picked some horses out in an each-way accumulator bet. That night in the digs, I checked the Teletext on the TV. Blimey, they had all come in! My total winnings: £800. Linda and I loved it up in Scotland, and spent every penny of my winnings. We loved being surrounded by mountains and rivers; the scenery is truly breathtaking. You can relax and totally chill out. We went there a number of times, always to different places: Fort William, Ben Nevis, Grantown-on-Spey, Isle of Skye, Inverness, The Trossachs and Loch Lomond being just a few. I recommend it to anyone.

But with the cable work drying up, I had less excuses to be out of Hartlepool, meaning that that naughty lad Trouble started popping his head up again. Not long after returning from a break up in Scotland, I was in a club where one of my old boxing pals, Andy Tucker, was working the door. We were having a good natter about the old days when this geezer comes squaring up to me in a boxer’s stance and starts flicking out punches. Both Andy and I knew this nutter, so I told him to pack it in. Now he should have stopped then and everything would have been hunky-dory, but he just wouldn’t listen. I had a quick scan of the place and saw that a lot of people were watching; I started to feel embarrassed, as he was still flicking out the jab. Well, wherever there’s a crowd … I casually put my drink on the bar and proceeded to carry out a demolition job on the guy, duly flattening him with a road roller of a punch. I apologised to Andy and left. Another night spoiled over a dickhead being clever.

A few weeks later, I bumped into the prick’s older brother, who I knew as a fellow trainer of amateur boxers. He said, ‘What the hell did you do that to our kid for?’ I told him what had happened, which was different from what he had heard. He knew his brother could be a nuisance when he’d had a drink. He also added that his brother’s jaw was broken in two places and it was wired up. So it’s only rarely that I get down the town now – there’s too much hassle and it’s not worth it. I’ve been there, done it all, bought and worn
the T-shirt, and I’ve now hung it up – still, I haven’t washed the blood off yet!

Yet you cannot delete a reputation like mine too easily. It will always create its own trouble. One afternoon, I got a phone call from a friend who wanted to see me. I met up with him and he told me that a few thieves he knew had got caught nicking scrap from a yard by the owner, who shouted to them that ‘Richy Horsley will be round to punch your heads in.’ This had happened a number of times, so my pal and I went round to see him. I never even knew the guy. When I asked him why he used my name, he just denied it, until I told him to stop taking the piss, whereat he claimed he’d only used it the once. But I knew he was bullshitting me, and informed him that I would be charging for the use of my name. I gave him 24 hours to get what was owed to me.

As we were leaving the yard, my mate gave him the back of his hand.

It turned out that the bloke was so beside himself with worry that he phoned the police. They were planning an ambush, but luckily someone I knew overheard the plotting and phoned me to warn me off. So we never turned up as we were supposed to. Within the hour, though, the police had burst into my pal’s house and locked him up for assault. He was told he was looking at some jail. I got a phone call from his brother warning me to be on my toes, so I made a hasty retreat.
Fortunately, someone who knew the scrapman very well went to see him and promised him he would be left alone if he dropped the charges. When the scrapman phoned the policy accordingly, they tried to persuade him not to drop the charges, but they couldn’t change his mind, so my friend was released. The scrapman was left alone, as promised. What a fucking carry on though! Saying that, I think everyone involved learned a lesson.

The main stability in my life remained the boxing. Kevin Bennett and Ian Cooper had hung up their amateur vests and turned professional. Neil Fannan took out a trainer’s licence, and I was asked if I wanted one too, which of course I did. I had to go to a meeting of the Northern Area Boxing Board of Control and answer questions put to me by members. The former British heavyweight title challenger, Dave Garside, spoke up for me. I had to wait outside the room for five minutes before being called back in. I was told that my application had been successful.

The local paper came out and took some photos of Neil, Benny, Cooper and me. They featured a piece on the back page about the ‘New Stable’. At that time, Dave Garside got his promoter’s licence and was putting his first show on at the Tall Trees Centre in Yarm. It would be the lads’ debut pro fights. The show was a complete sell-out, and everyone involved was a bit nervy. Luckily we watched the Eddie Murphy film
The Nutty Professor
on the TV before the fight, which got
rid of any nervous tension. Neil hadn’t seen it before and was laughing so much that he was slavering all over the place. Both Benny and Cooper won their fights impressively. On the same bill was a very historical fight between Jan Wild of Stockton and Audrey Guthrie of Newcastle. What was historical about it? It was the very first time that two English female professional boxers had fought each other. Every other pro fight up to then had involved a British woman against a foreign opponent. I worked in Wild’s corner handing up – meaning I was in charge of the water bottle and the spit bucket. She won a close decision even though I did think Guthrie deserved it.

I was the resident house second for about five of Dave Garside’s shows, all of which took place on a Sunday afternoon. At one show, the two guests of honour were Ernie Shavers, who I have told you about, and Brian London, who fought twice for the same title, losing to Floyd Patterson and Muhammad Ali respectively. Brian was originally a Hartlepool lad but moved to Blackpool when he was young. His father, Jack London, was from Hartlepool and was British Heavyweight Champion in the 1940s. When I think about why Hartlepool has produced so many hard men, I always come to the conclusion that it is down to its history. The town used to be known as ‘Little Chicago’ because of the amount of gangs it once had. There was the Captain Cutlass Gang, the Turquoise Gang, the Black Hands and loads
more. Lots of tough foreign merchant seamen would stay in Hartlepool because it was a thriving seaport, and would spend their cash in a row of pubs called ‘The Barbary Coast’.

Just after Kevin Bennett turned professional, we went to Milton Keynes to do a bit of graft. It was an extremely bitter cold December and, to make matters worse, we were working outside. It was proper brass-monkey weather. Whenever we arrived back at the flat, the first one through the door would put the bath straight on, while the others waited their turn and thawed out with a hot cuppa. One night Benny decided to go out jogging and to have a bath when he got back. It was fucking cold outside, and he looked pissed off when he returned. But he was even more pissed off when he found out that all the hot water had gone. Was that the end of it? No, I’m afraid it wasn’t. He went into the kitchen to make the dinner that he had been really looking forward to. I was sat at the kitchen table tucking into a large plate of pasta with baked potatoes smothered in butter with a nice cuppa. Lovely. The aroma emanating from my meal was fantastic and it tasted even better, I can tell you. Anyway, Benny opens the fridge and goes for his meal but he can’t find it. Where the fuck is it? He asked, ‘Richy, have you seen my scran?’

‘No mate,’ I replied. Benny then eyed me suspiciously and looked at my plate – the food on it looked remarkably like his. I was eating his fucking scran! I had
taken the wrong meal out of the fridge, you see. Benny was not amused. All that was left in the fridge was a scabby little shrivelled-up potato with a mangy bit of butter. I tried to explain to him that it was for his own good to keep the fire in his belly, eye of the tiger and all that, but he was having none of it and was in a foul mood all night. But who can blame him? He still thinks I did it on purpose.

My status as a boxing trainer was soon to come to an end though, as my past began to haunt me once more. Some time before I had been featured in a book called
Street Fighters
. The first story in the book is a short rundown about some of my street fights. When there was a story about me in the local paper talking about some of the brutal street fights I’ve been in and about the forthcoming book, the local Boxing Board asked me to go in for an interview about the
Street Fighting
. I didn’t want to sit in front of a bunch of people while they put me on trial – I didn’t see what business of theirs it was – so I packed the corner work in.

The publication of the book reinvigorated interest in my street-fighting credentials, and not long after I was contacted by a man who wanted me to have a
bare-knuckle
fight. I was guaranteed five grand, but the man I would be fighting was a former heavyweight boxer. We had a long talk and everything seemed kosher. I said I needed eight weeks preparation, which he agreed to. I had become so lazy and was moving slower, so I thought
this would get my arse in gear. I got weighed and was 19st 12lb. I wrote a training diary so I could keep tabs with what I’d done. Some of you might find it interesting and some might not, but I’m putting it in all the same.