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Authors: Bernard O'Mahoney, Lew Yates
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back inside the club and asked his friends once more to leave. Somebody had either told them that I had parents or they had decided they no longer wanted trouble, because I wasn’t referred to as a bastard again. They simply drank their drinks and left.
Later that night, as the hero patrolled the neighbourhood, he saw the Irishmen kicking my car, which I had parked some distance from the club. Instead of confronting the men, the hero ran back towards me shouting, ‘Lew, Lew, they are smashing up your car!’
I ran outside, and when I reached my vehicle, the men were still kicking it. When they saw me, they began shouting, ‘Come on, you English bastard! We will kill you!’
Two hit the pavement after I unleashed a left and right hook in quick succession. The third and loudest mouth I held against the car so I could really punish him. Blow after blow landed in his kidneys and head. He was semi-conscious and still trying to vomit when I eventually let him fall to the floor. I looked at my car and then looked at the three men lying alongside it. The red mist came down. ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard!’ I shouted as I kicked and stamped on each of them. The hero and several customers came out of the Hibernian and tried to calm me down.
A woman began screaming, ‘Stop him! For God’s sake, stop him! He will kill them.’ I think it was the sheer panic in her voice that brought me to my senses. Another, calmer, female voice was demanding that an ambulance be called. I knew that when an ambulance did attend, the police would not be far behind. I looked at the men, who were spattered with blood and lying motionless. It was time for me to go and never return. I told the hero, who was visibly shaking, to get everybody inside so they could not see which car I was going to get into.
‘An ambulance is on its way,’ the hero shouted. ‘Please can you all go inside?’
As soon as the last person entered the club, I jumped in my car, started the engine, put my thumb up to the hero and sped away.
Johnny Sullivan later told me that the three men had all suffered injuries that required hospital treatment. ‘Luckily for you, Lew, they hate the police more than they hate the English, so they refused to talk to them. Had they done so, you would be going to prison for a very long time.’
I knew Johnny was right. Losing my temper had caused me to lose my boxing licence and my job, and now I had come close to losing my liberty. I knew I had to try to control my rage. I also knew that it was not going to be easy.
ROUND THREE
WHETHER I WAS GOING TO BE BOXING IN THE RING OR BOXING ON THE DANCE floor of a nightclub, I knew that I had to maintain my fitness. In an effort to do so, I drove 200 miles per week to get to and from St Helens ABC, where I had started training. Tony Smart, the trainer at the club, noticed how keen I was and urged me to re-apply for my boxing licence. ‘Fuck that. I am not grovelling to them,’ I said, but Tony was adamant.
‘What’s the point of putting this much effort into training if you’re never going to box again?’
Reluctantly I agreed to sit down and write a letter of apology for hurling the referee across the ring during the Billy Aird bout. I didn’t mean a word of what I wrote, but I wanted my licence back. It took a few months and three ridiculously long letters of major sucking up before my licence was finally reinstated. Lew Martindale was once more getting ready for the boxing ring. I had the required physique, I had the willpower and I had an abundance of new sparring partners: the customers at my latest place of work.
The Cavendish Club on Lords Square, Blackburn, regularly attracted 2,000 revellers when it was at its height of popularity. Trends change and inevitably numbers dwindled before the club underwent various refurbishments, name and ownership changes. The last I heard, it had regained its popularity and is again one of the north-west’s most exclusive clubs but is
Later that night, as the hero patrolled the neighbourhood, he saw the Irishmen kicking my car, which I had parked some distance from the club. Instead of confronting the men, the hero ran back towards me shouting, ‘Lew, Lew, they are smashing up your car!’
I ran outside, and when I reached my vehicle, the men were still kicking it. When they saw me, they began shouting, ‘Come on, you English bastard! We will kill you!’
Two hit the pavement after I unleashed a left and right hook in quick succession. The third and loudest mouth I held against the car so I could really punish him. Blow after blow landed in his kidneys and head. He was semi-conscious and still trying to vomit when I eventually let him fall to the floor. I looked at my car and then looked at the three men lying alongside it. The red mist came down. ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard!’ I shouted as I kicked and stamped on each of them. The hero and several customers came out of the Hibernian and tried to calm me down.
A woman began screaming, ‘Stop him! For God’s sake, stop him! He will kill them.’ I think it was the sheer panic in her voice that brought me to my senses. Another, calmer, female voice was demanding that an ambulance be called. I knew that when an ambulance did attend, the police would not be far behind. I looked at the men, who were spattered with blood and lying motionless. It was time for me to go and never return. I told the hero, who was visibly shaking, to get everybody inside so they could not see which car I was going to get into.
‘An ambulance is on its way,’ the hero shouted. ‘Please can you all go inside?’
As soon as the last person entered the club, I jumped in my car, started the engine, put my thumb up to the hero and sped away.
Johnny Sullivan later told me that the three men had all suffered injuries that required hospital treatment. ‘Luckily for you, Lew, they hate the police more than they hate the English, so they refused to talk to them. Had they done so, you would be going to prison for a very long time.’
I knew Johnny was right. Losing my temper had caused me to lose my boxing licence and my job, and now I had come close to losing my liberty. I knew I had to try to control my rage. I also knew that it was not going to be easy.
ROUND THREE
WHETHER I WAS GOING TO BE BOXING IN THE RING OR BOXING ON THE DANCE floor of a nightclub, I knew that I had to maintain my fitness. In an effort to do so, I drove 200 miles per week to get to and from St Helens ABC, where I had started training. Tony Smart, the trainer at the club, noticed how keen I was and urged me to re-apply for my boxing licence. ‘Fuck that. I am not grovelling to them,’ I said, but Tony was adamant.
‘What’s the point of putting this much effort into training if you’re never going to box again?’
Reluctantly I agreed to sit down and write a letter of apology for hurling the referee across the ring during the Billy Aird bout. I didn’t mean a word of what I wrote, but I wanted my licence back. It took a few months and three ridiculously long letters of major sucking up before my licence was finally reinstated. Lew Martindale was once more getting ready for the boxing ring. I had the required physique, I had the willpower and I had an abundance of new sparring partners: the customers at my latest place of work.
The Cavendish Club on Lords Square, Blackburn, regularly attracted 2,000 revellers when it was at its height of popularity. Trends change and inevitably numbers dwindled before the club underwent various refurbishments, name and ownership changes. The last I heard, it had regained its popularity and is again one of the north-west’s most exclusive clubs but is
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