BD8 & Beyond Read online

  Step Up ToThe Mark….

  It was a few days before Christmas and after breaking up from work, foremost on everyone’s mind was going out on the beer and partying. Bradford had always had some great pubs and a good night life but in recent years a lot of the pubs had been replaced by crappy wine bars that were full of young trendy tossers and student types and most of the ‘town boys’ seemed to have disappeared.

  We were on a mission to let our hair down and have a top day on the booze. A few back street pubs with a few old mates and we were on our way into town to meet up with all the guys from work. We entered the Queens after a good gallon and we were buzzing. It was busy with Christmas ‘finishers’, spirits were high and the atmosphere was tripping. There were five of us in our direct group and the other four mingled with all our workmates while I had a chat with one of the doormen, who I’d known for a number of years. After a couple of drinks, everyone started to move to the next pub, I was with my mate Si and after bidding John, the bouncer, farewell, we went to catch up with the crowd. As we approached the next bar, there was a little bit of a queue and as we got to the door, Si started to enter but one of the two Asian doormen said I’d had too much to drink and couldn’t come in. I tried to explain that I hadn’t and had a dodgy knee but they were so arrogant and full of themselves and were having none of it. A couple of mates came out and after a short conversation, common sense prevailed and we persuaded the two ‘jobsworths’ to let me in. Less than half an hour later and it was time to move on but on the way out, one of the doorman thought he’d make a few smart ‘quips’ and have a laugh on our behalf. Well, words were exchanged and the smaller of the two doormen took a cheap shot and punched me on the back of my head, as I turned, the cheeky ‘tool’ digged me straight in the middle of the cheek. Well all hell broke loose and the two fellas had to earn their pay, or, rather not! I managed to land a decent shot on my assailant and sent him flying backwards, his partner, who was a lot taller and a bit of a boxer, so I learned later, came forward and although I was stood a step lower down, I caught him with an uppercut that went straight through his guard and he ended up with an open wound from his eye to his hairline. These two had opened a hornet’s nest and got well stung as three or four, pissed off guys got weighed into them. They were very good with the verbal but after having the shit knocked out of them in the foyer, they ended up running into the bar, crying for help and covered in ‘claret’. Start it………. finish it.

  Unfortunately for me, it hadn’t crossed my mind that the two so called ‘doormen’ would get the law and start searching all the pubs in the surrounding area but hey ho, that’s exactly what these two clowns did and inside the hour, both Si and myself were sat in the cold cells for the rest of the night…………………..

  Just another unfortunate day in the life!

  INTRODUCTION

  I’ve always had the conception that if you start a brawl, fist fight or bring violence into an argument of any kind, then you should accept the consequences. The result being that you either win, get your arse kicked or end up having to deal with the law. On the other hand, if you don’t start an incident and end up winning, then, in my opinion, that’s perceived as self defence and the other bloke should accept what he receives but unfortunately, the law doesn’t work like that and they will, more often than not, try to nick you. I believe there’s a quote that states “Your human right to swing a punch, stops where another man’s nose begins”…………. that pretty much says it all.

  In no way whatsoever is any part of this book aimed at glorifying violence at any level, or in any shape or form. It’s just an insight into my life and how, for a long time, there always seemed to be someone stood in the way, wanting to have a piece of me for one reason or another.

  When working on the doors, I always did my best to try and defuse any incident or any confrontation by using a non-physical approach but that approach isn’t always effective and sometimes the use of physical force is the only option. In some circumstances, a good chat and an open mind can clear up quite a lot of disagreements but on the flip side of the coin, you can always come across some joker who thinks this is a sense of weakness and decides to take a pop at you. Reasonable force is then brought in but if the situation is getting out of hand and your own, along with other people’s safety is likely to be jeopardised, then the force needed to quash an incident may have to be to taken up a level.

  In life I believe that a person will have five or six top friends, these friends are for life and are mates that you don’t necessarily have to see on a regular basis but they’ll always be there, when needed……forever. I have my six top mates, some of who I see on a regular basis and some that are in contact but I don’t see too often, the bond is there and these guys all know who they are without me having to go all soppy and blurting out a load of old mush. That statement doesn’t mean that one can’t have hundreds of friends, it’s just my opinion that a handful are at a different level and in the pages ahead, there are a hell of a lot of friends mentioned.

  “Friendship is sometimes like money, easier made than kept”……………albeit, that quote doesn’t apply to the half dozen who are ‘bonded’ forever.

  CHAPTER 1

  Being brought up in the Girlington area of Bradford in the 60’s wasn’t a hardship at all, the area wasn’t that rough at the time and most of my childhood was as pleasant as the next kids. All the families around the back street where we lived were quite close and if you were ever out of order, there was always somebody’s mum ready to clock you one round the back of the napper. That was always accepted and when you’re mum found out, you were usually on the end of another slap. My mum had a flat wooden bat with a little hole in the handle which was hung on a hook in the kitchen. On the bat was a picture of a ‘Bambi’ and the inscription that said “for the cute little deer with the bare behind”, if we were out of order, we would feel the sting of that bat right across our backsides and boy did it hurt, mum was pretty handy with that implement! Mum and dad worked all hours to make sure we had as much as any other kid, Pam, my sister, was born in 1958; sixteen month before me, brother Pete was born twenty months later than me and brother Bryan was born much later in 1967. Kids at that time new the ‘rights’ and ‘wrongs’ of everyday living and almost all respected their elders, what parents said was ‘right’ and you didn’t answer back as such. BD8 was no ‘Hell’s Kitchen’ and if you kept your nose clean, there was nothing to worry about.

  Every Saturday, until I was about eight, we took it in turns to go to my Nan’s house for the day, two of us would go and the third stayed at home, Bryan wasn’t in the frame then. My granddad would always take us into Peel park and occasionally, we’d run through Undercliffe cemetery, which was where they filmed the Billy Liar picture, with Tom Courtney……….happy days, young kids with no cares or fears.

  In those days, most adults seemed to smoke, all advertisements seemed to be smoking related and almost everyone on TV or in a film had a cig in their mouth. Every morning and afternoon, all the mothers in our back street, would nip round to one house for a brew and once they’d all lit their smokes, you couldn’t see a damn thing. How times change, these days you’re thought of as some kind of leper if you smoke at all.

  All the kids got on pretty well where we lived and there was a good mix of age, Kipper Dog (Brian) was the oldest kid in our street, six years older than me, and a big lad that everybody looked up to, he eventually joined the navy at 16 and that was him gone. Stephen, (Crabbo) lived over the back street from me, he was a year younger than me, we did plenty as kids but nothing really once we hit the teens. There was one incident that still has me chuckling, it was when the trolley busses were running throughout Bradford and the overhead tracks ran on Duck
worth Lane, across the top of our street. It was late sixties and I’d be about 8 years old. One Saturday afternoon, there were four or five of us at the point where the directions of the tracks could be lever changed and after being dared, Stephen was lifted up by this big Polish kid called Roman and he pulled the lever. The result was that some of the track came down and the whole trolley line into town was out of order, top draw! Anyway, his name got put in the frame and I think he had a caution, probably his only ever run in with the law in his life. It’s not so often to hear or see many of the kids that lived in that street these days, although one or two are still in the frame. Ian Jack (Stephen’s cousin), lives high up in Scotland, working as a lock keeper or something, Martin (the Smooth) became a paramedic and I think he’s in Cumbria and Billy Fish moved to Rotherham but now lives up at Denholme, Phil Hartley part owns a bakery business I think and Stephen and his brother Graeme still live somewhere in Bradford. Others that lived there were, Mick and Graham Hughes, Julie and Elaine Ansell and Steve Hebden.

  For a couple of years, in the summer holidays, a large group of us would go down to St Josephs College where big Roman’s dad was the caretaker and use the gym facilities and the swimming pool. There were always around eight lads and a few lasses and we would spend a couple of days a week there, it was top drawer, the pool had two high diving boards and a springboard and the place was immaculate condition. The gym had everything as far as equipment was concerned and we would participate in everything from 5-aside football to building our own assault courses and running ourselves into the ground! Unfortunately our summer holiday ‘gym and pool’ paradise came to an abrupt halt after a couple of years as big Roman’s dad hung himself in the changing room area, shame really because his dad was a nice old guy and actually put his job on the line by letting us have the freedom of the place. Roman, later, was briefly was on the books for Bradford City, as he was a decent goalkeeper but I haven’t heard of or seen him since the seventies.

  There was always plenty of activity in the back street between Kensington Street and Durham Road; everybody knew everyone else’s business and everyone looked out for everyone else. When November approached, all the kids were out ‘chumping’ for firewood and stocking up for Bonfire night, almost everyone pulled their weight, young girls as well. Mick Stead, a bit of smart arse from a few streets away, once told us that a house up the Woodlands Road was getting new drive gates and the old ones were ours if we wanted them. The gates were really big, heavy wooden things that warranted a few of us to lift them and took quite a while to get them home. Once they were home, those gates were quickly smashed to bits and stored but Stead had pulled a fast one and the gates owners were soon round kicking off! Apparently, those gates weren’t down to be replaced, well, not until we’d paid a visit! The parents of all the kids involved paid for new gates and we all got a whacking and had to pay back the cash over time, lesson learned……’You rarely get owt for nowt!’ and never listen to a pillock like Stead! I think the Kipper Dog ended up giving Stead a smacking for his troubles.

  When bonfire night arrived it was always a big street affair with everybody chipping in, there would be plenty of toffee, gingerbread, toffee apples, parkin cake etc. The bloke from the corner shop would bring a dozen bottles of pop and a rake of spice for the kids and my old man would cook all the pie and peas, it was the business. It was always an eventful time, there was a street light in the middle of the backstreet and one year the fire was too close to it and totally destroyed it, much to every kid’s amusement. The fireworks were always well supervised but it was a thing for us kids to nick a few out of the tins and congregate in a garden further down the street. One year Kipper Dog and his mate Giggsy, let a rocket off and it went straight through a bathroom window, setting the curtains alight and half the bathroom. There was hell on and the old Polish geezer who lived there was actually in the bath at the time, well, the law arrived along with a fire engine, questions were being thrown around like no tomorrow but by that time we’d legged it.

  Winters were tops in the late sixties to early seventies, it was nearly always a white Christmas and the snow would be at least a foot deep and seemed to last for ages. Massive snowball fights, the building of ‘walls’ and igloos up the backstreet were in abundance and all the kids were involved. We would sledge the full length of the backstreet, straight across the road and into the backstreet further down, with the aid of a lookout positioned on the road. It wasn’t always wise to enter the bottom backstreet, there was always friction and there was a kid called Brandon Walsh had a team always ready to have a do with us, he was always a back stabbing lying little runt who never thought twice about dropping you in it. His old man was some sort of security guard who actually thought he was the Old Bill and used to patrol the back street with his Alsatian dog, acting like he was Dixon of Dock bloody Green! I reckon that Walsh kid definitely got his over the years though. Phil’s ma, Mrs H, lived in the second house up from the bottom of the ‘back’ and she would always lay a cover of ash across the snow so we couldn’t shoot into the road but this more often than not caused us to fly off the sledges and end up with bloody noses, cut chins or other injuries. She was only thinking of our safety, bless her (and she made the best Rice Krispie and Corn Flake buns for miles!!).

  A few of us were in the Boys Brigade at that time and would attend Sunday bible class each week, there was always plenty going on, what with football, camping, sports days and the weekly meeting one night a week. I think, overall, we were pretty good kids and although I didn’t (and still don’t) believe that every thing in the bible book was half it was passed up to be, we learned a few rights and wrongs for future life.

  School life was ok; I was pretty much a part of all the school sports teams, relay team, rounders team, football team and even played a bit of chess! I had a lot of close school friends at Lilycroft, young lads from that time that come to mind are Adrian Rushworth, Paul Singh, Ray Ellington, Mick Sugden, Brian Noble, to name a few, we had a few laughs in our early years of growing. Ray was a really big kid compared to the rest of us and I think he was the first Jamaican lad I’d ever seen. I remember thinking, “look at the size of this big brown kid!”. Myself and Phil Hartley were pretty ‘thick’ together then, we were the school ball boys, which was great because on a Friday, we spent half the day on the school roof and in the surrounding gardens, collecting lost balls and then more time, going round the classrooms on a mission to return them to the rightful owners! Imagine the uproar now with the health and safety, crikey, young lads on the school roof with the teacher watching from twenty to thirty feet below!!

  There was a small shop next to Lilycroft School and after school it was always packed with kids buying sweets. Phil and I thought it quite clever one day to nick a full box of ‘Milky Ways’ and leg it out of the shop. It was that busy, we weren’t noticed. We foolishly told Crabbo about our daring ‘heist’ and he consequently blabbed to his ma. Now his mum, Enid, pulled us and asked us to confirm what we’d done, with the understanding that our mothers wouldn’t be informed if we owned up. On returning home from school the next day, Phil and I were belted by our mothers and dragged to the shop to sort out the offence. Being conned like that by a grown-up is not something you forgive as a nine year old kid. At 11 years old, left Lilycroft Junior School and I went to Drummond Road School near Manningham. At that time there was a wall in the playground with about a 7ft drop on the other side and all the new kids were thrown straight over it, some landing with a smashed bone or two, others a little bruised and battered. Our fruit and veg man at the time was a bloke called Pitts and I got on really well with his son John, who just happened to be ‘cock of the school’ and a real handy fucker. Someone put it about that John was my cousin and I got a wide berth from most of the school heavies…… nice.

  We moved house at this time, from the terrace house in Kensington Street into the semi-detached with a garage in Durham Road, quite a bit of an upgrade really. A few people were moving hou
se around that time but the ‘back street’ boys were all still pretty good mates, Billy had two years on me and Ian had one, the ‘Smooth’ was a year younger than me, so we were all in separate years at school. We’d spend a lot of time cycling up and around the Yorkshire Dales then, camping or staying in Youth Hostels. Everyone seemed to be quite hospitable then and there was nearly always a friendly atmosphere and you could go most places without getting abducted, bashed, robbed or raped. We would cycle up to 50 miles in a day, stop overnight and come back the next day, throughout the summer, we’d do this most weekends. On our way to a Youth Hostel in a village called Linton in the Dales, we stopped for a rest and a bite to eat on a long stretch of road passed Skipton and spent two hours digging all the ‘cats eyes’ out or the road. We had hundreds of these little glass ‘eyes’ and on arrival in Linton, we threw them all in to the village stream and booked in at the Youth Hostel. We thought we were the cleverest kids on earth that night as we sat by the bridge smoking No6 cigs and watching the moonlight shooting in all different directions off the ‘eyes’ in the water, it was like the Northern Lights, a bit of a bummer for the motorists driving on that road at the time though!!

  Mum passed her driving test shortly after we moved into Durham Road and we got a navy blue Ford Corsair, which was the bee’s knees at the time, it was washed and polished every week without fail. We always had a family holiday every year, usually, Blackpool or Morecombe, used to love them as a kid and it was nearly always a belting summer. Once we were at Butlins, Filey and I won the five year olds flat race and got a free holiday, tops! We also won the ‘Family of the Week’ award. Mum and Dad were over the moon and we went back the next year. My dad took up the driving lessons but he was bloody hopeless, sacked it after driving over a mini roundabout and never learned to drive at all! Mum would always take the family out in the motor but more often than not you had to make your own way to wherever and that meant the bus or on your own pins. I’d walk to school, which was about a couple of miles hike and never thought anything about it, although that would kill most youngsters today. My best mate at school then was a short lad called Keith Gardener; we would walk to my house at lunchtime and then back to school, for the afternoon classes. Kicking our heals on the long main road, we would puff away on our No 6 cigs, thinking we were really cool pieces of work but when you’re 12 years old you never seem to see much of what’s really going on around you and tend to live in your own bubble. One lunchtime, we hadn’t noticed my mum, who was on her way home for lunch from work. She was on the bus and passed us while we were puffing away on our nicotine, well, no need to say that the shit hit the fan on my arrival at home!