Read Online Wild Thing by Bernard O'Mahoney, Lew Yates - Free Book Online
Authors: Bernard O'Mahoney, Lew Yates
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clapping, but when he pointed his finger and then pointed at each of the three judges, I knew I had been given a public warning. I shouted, ‘Fuck off!’ at the referee before grabbing him and throwing him across the ring. The referee staggered and stumbled before falling into the ropes. Billy stood in his corner with a look of astonishment on his face. I don’t think he knew what to say or do.
When the referee regained his composure, he stood pointing at me and began shouting, ‘Out! Out! Out!’ Despite his apparent sense of outrage he wouldn’t come anywhere near me. The crowd were on their feet, waving and cheering. They were loving it. When I got back to my corner, I noticed Joe Erskine was in the front row watching me. Joe was British heavyweight champion in 1956–7. He fought Henry Cooper on five occasions, of which he won two and lost three. Joe was an absolutely fantastic fighter. Alongside Joe was Harry Scott, a Scouse boxing legend who had fought Alan Minter, Kevin Finnegan, Chris Finnegan and Rubin Hurricane Carter twice. As I climbed out of the ring, Harry Scott looked at me, winked and then started laughing. It’s a moment I shall never forget. You can’t get much better than a nod of approval from one of boxing’s greats.
Billy Aird later turned professional. He fought four heavyweight title bouts, three of which he lost, but in September 1970 he did defeat Richard Dunn (who went on to fight Muhammad Ali) to claim the Central Area heavyweight title. As for me, my euphoria was short-lived. A rather formal letter informed me that, for assaulting the referee, I was banned from the ring for 12 months. The dream was back on hold.
They say that bad things happen in threes. I had failed to turn professional; I had then been banned from boxing; and then one afternoon at work I had an argument with my brother-in-law Bob and he sacked me. Fearing I would be unable to pay our mortgage and end up homeless, I tried hard to secure a new job. I had kept in touch with Johnny Sullivan in the hope he would one day get his management licence. When I told him that I’d been banned from boxing and had then lost my job, he suggested we meet, as he had a proposition for me. ‘Do you think you could look after this place?’ he asked, as we sat together in the Hibernian Club in Preston.
Looking around at the mainly Irish working-class clientele, I could see no reason why I wouldn’t be able to maintain order. ‘Sure, Johnny, I could do it,’ I said. ‘Is there a vacancy, then?’
Johnny explained that a group of pro-Republican Irishmen had started frequenting the club and were causing trouble. In one incident they had beaten up a customer simply because he was English. ‘There is a doorman employed here,’ he said, ‘but to be honest he is not up to much. The management want somebody to restore order, and I suggested you. The job’s there if you want it.’ Without hesitating I agreed to take the job and thanked Johnny.
The doorman I inherited at the Hibernian turned out to be an all-singing, all-dancing action hero. What he did not know or had not done was not worth knowing or not worth doing, or so he thought. In reality he was an incompetent fool, incapable of throwing himself downstairs, let alone some of the Neanderthal men we were expected to sort out. Every time a fight broke out, the hero would disappear into the toilets or go for a walk around the car park. I was not aware that we were responsible for patrolling the local neighbourhood, but the hero certainly dedicated a lot of time to doing so.
One evening I asked the three pro-Republican Irish guys if they would leave because they were becoming increasingly intoxicated and loud. ‘Fuck you, you English bastard!’ one of them shouted. Without replying, I grabbed him in a headlock and charged towards the exit door. His head smashed into the push bar and the door burst open. As he began to stumble, I released him and he fell to the floor. I walked
When the referee regained his composure, he stood pointing at me and began shouting, ‘Out! Out! Out!’ Despite his apparent sense of outrage he wouldn’t come anywhere near me. The crowd were on their feet, waving and cheering. They were loving it. When I got back to my corner, I noticed Joe Erskine was in the front row watching me. Joe was British heavyweight champion in 1956–7. He fought Henry Cooper on five occasions, of which he won two and lost three. Joe was an absolutely fantastic fighter. Alongside Joe was Harry Scott, a Scouse boxing legend who had fought Alan Minter, Kevin Finnegan, Chris Finnegan and Rubin Hurricane Carter twice. As I climbed out of the ring, Harry Scott looked at me, winked and then started laughing. It’s a moment I shall never forget. You can’t get much better than a nod of approval from one of boxing’s greats.
Billy Aird later turned professional. He fought four heavyweight title bouts, three of which he lost, but in September 1970 he did defeat Richard Dunn (who went on to fight Muhammad Ali) to claim the Central Area heavyweight title. As for me, my euphoria was short-lived. A rather formal letter informed me that, for assaulting the referee, I was banned from the ring for 12 months. The dream was back on hold.
They say that bad things happen in threes. I had failed to turn professional; I had then been banned from boxing; and then one afternoon at work I had an argument with my brother-in-law Bob and he sacked me. Fearing I would be unable to pay our mortgage and end up homeless, I tried hard to secure a new job. I had kept in touch with Johnny Sullivan in the hope he would one day get his management licence. When I told him that I’d been banned from boxing and had then lost my job, he suggested we meet, as he had a proposition for me. ‘Do you think you could look after this place?’ he asked, as we sat together in the Hibernian Club in Preston.
Looking around at the mainly Irish working-class clientele, I could see no reason why I wouldn’t be able to maintain order. ‘Sure, Johnny, I could do it,’ I said. ‘Is there a vacancy, then?’
Johnny explained that a group of pro-Republican Irishmen had started frequenting the club and were causing trouble. In one incident they had beaten up a customer simply because he was English. ‘There is a doorman employed here,’ he said, ‘but to be honest he is not up to much. The management want somebody to restore order, and I suggested you. The job’s there if you want it.’ Without hesitating I agreed to take the job and thanked Johnny.
The doorman I inherited at the Hibernian turned out to be an all-singing, all-dancing action hero. What he did not know or had not done was not worth knowing or not worth doing, or so he thought. In reality he was an incompetent fool, incapable of throwing himself downstairs, let alone some of the Neanderthal men we were expected to sort out. Every time a fight broke out, the hero would disappear into the toilets or go for a walk around the car park. I was not aware that we were responsible for patrolling the local neighbourhood, but the hero certainly dedicated a lot of time to doing so.
One evening I asked the three pro-Republican Irish guys if they would leave because they were becoming increasingly intoxicated and loud. ‘Fuck you, you English bastard!’ one of them shouted. Without replying, I grabbed him in a headlock and charged towards the exit door. His head smashed into the push bar and the door burst open. As he began to stumble, I released him and he fell to the floor. I walked
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