Born to Fight--The True Story of Richy 'Crazy Horse' Horsley (4 page)

I bet you’re wondering what the hell is going on. You’ve bought this book expecting tales of family beatings, awful poverty, and whatever else goes into the making of a true fighter. Well, don’t worry, the fighting will come along soon enough. But like I say, I had a loving upbringing, so that when I ask myself why I become a warrior, I can only answer: I was born one.

I had always been an active kid. From 1971–74, I was best of pals with four mates that I had met whilst kicking my Donald Duck ball against a wall outside Gran’s house. Me, Trev, Rob, Kev and Mick were all football mad – Rob was so talented a player that we all expected him to turn pro, but sadly he never did. We used to go to parks to see who was playing football. We challenged various groups ‘us against yous’ stuff, the
first team to ten wins. We never lost a single game. We also went all over on our bikes, and played games like ‘Kick The Tin’ and ‘British Bulldogs’, which are absolute classics. I hear the government are on about introducing these games back into schools to try and instil some old values and to get the kids fit. Personally, I think it would be like asking them to wear shoulder pads in their wide-lapelled jackets and to put on platform boots – it just can’t work! Not only that, but there is too much promiscuity and lawlessness about today for kids to be interested in those games. To change people’s values would mean changing the whole scene around us. Nah, forget it! Overall though, it’s a shame that era has gone, as those were some of the happiest times of my life.

That, however, is not to say that I stopped fighting, far from it. Once there was a bit of trouble when Rob booted me in the face and broke my nose. It was a bit of a scuffle, nothing more, and we soon sorted it out. In fact I can’t even recall what it was over! I could take a good shot even when I was eight – something, of course, that has never left me, as there’s a video of one of my later fights where I take 94 clean punches to the head and am still standing at the final bell. By the time I was ten, I’d had about fifteen fights, and almost all of them were over after a few punches, which is common to most street fights. I started to develop my own style, which was based on one vital lesson: always expect the
unexpected. Complacency is another Achilles heel. I remember once fighting the son of a karate specialist, who thought he was the bee’s knees. I totally wiped the floor with him, messed him up something proper. His old man was supposed to be making an appearance at my uncle’s house, but never turned up – he must have decided to stay at home with a pork chop!

I was always a quiet lad, so people used to think I wasn’t up to much, but when they saw me go to work with my fists they quickly changed their minds. I was getting involved in arranged fights as early as the age of eight, when I was involved in a scrap outside the local baths. I can remember it exactly: I turn around to walk a few metres to get some distance from my opponent before we begin. I can hear whispering. The next thing I know, some lad jumps me from behind, and starts to choke me. Luckily, I manage to get him off, and hurl him to the floor. Next thing I know I’m on top of him, smashing punches into his face like a steam hammer. It was all over. Less than 15 seconds from start to finish! Why hang about in long, drawn-out fights? You want them to be over as quick as possible. Fortunately, I was blessed with a pitiless punch that sorted the men out from the boys. The only drawback to having such a vicious punch is that I have often broken my hands over the years.

Sometimes it’s hard to keep out of trouble. There was a family in the early 1970s who lived opposite my
Granda Morris, who were always having scraps with my cousin Kevin, Tank’s brother. Well, one day I was watching one of these fights through the window when I saw Kevin get jumped by the older brother, just as Kevin was finishing off one of the younger ones. He started knocking the hell out of Kevin. My sense of fair play kicked in, and I charged out, tore into the oldest brother and gave him a bloody good hiding. I destroyed him! That beating, however, didn’t settle things, and I ended up having about four fights with this prat over time. I chinned him every time! Eventually he learned his lesson.

Just as I was coming of age as a fighter, my Granda, Sonny ‘Kid’ Morris, passed away. He had been a damn good amateur back in his day. He had beaten one lad three times who went on to become the British, Empire and European Champion as a professional. Granda’s professional career, however, wasn’t as impressive as his amateur one; he had 16 pro fights – 5 wins, 9 losses and 2 draws. Still, his pro record is opposite for anyone interested. Thanks to Miles Templeton, who provided me with it.

Granda died of a heart attack. I can still remember when I heard my mam crying just after she had heard.

My Uncle Keith, who was our Kev’s dad, had come around to give the bad news. He was a coalman who had his own business. He had lads out delivering coal for him. I’d go out collecting coal money with them. We’d be out a couple of hours at night and would get 50p each – cushty in those days! Other times, Keith would come home drunk as a skunk and would give all of us kids handfuls of money – and we would think we were rich.

As you can see, I had a big family, and can remember quite a bit about them. However, when it comes to saying why us Horsleys settled in Hartlepool, I’m afraid I can’t give you a definite answer. I do know that the first Horsleys to arrive in Hartlepool did so almost 150 years ago. John Horsley was born in 1848 at Wold Newton, in Yorkshire. His wife, Mary Anne Codling, was from Hinderwell, in North Yorkshire, and her father was a farmer. They married in Hartlepool in 1870. They were listed in the 1881 census as having five children aged ten, eight, six, four and two. The youngest of these was my dad’s father. He was married in 1901 to Mary Allen – my Granny Horsley. She, however, didn’t have roots in Yorkshire. Her father was a true cockney, born and bred in Poplar, and her mother was from Inverness, a true Scot, with the name of MacKintosh. The reason
why
they all moved here has gone with them to the grave. Maybe it was just for a fresh start, the desire to live somewhere new, right on the sea coast. But we are still here. It must be the sea air.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember the past – especially if you’ve taken as many shots as I have! You can rack your brain for hours for a lost memory, and at other times – bang! – something from the past hits you with no warning. Music is a particularly good trigger. Who, for instance, could forget that old classic ‘Kung Fu Fighting’, from back in 1974? Every time I hear that song I remember my Bruce Lee period. He was big business back then, and people from all walks of life were fanatical about him. I had Bruce Lee posters plastered all over my bedroom wall, and also had a subscription to
Kung Fu Monthly
. Dad used to nark me by calling him ‘Bruce Fruit’. I tried a bit of Kung Fu only to find it wasn’t my game, but remained fascinated with Bruce Lee’s fighting style. There were queues of fans
outside the pictures every time one of his movies was on. At the end of the movie, the exiting audience would come out into the streets en masse, and start doing Bruce Lee take-offs, randomly screaming in mock Chinese, ‘#@/ *.!!!’ Looking back on it makes me laugh at how easily influenced we all were, but still, great memories. Since his early death at the age of 32, Lee has attained legendary status. Behind the image though is a serious thinker – if anybody studies and fully understands the philosophy of Bruce Lee, they will never go far wrong.

In order to raise money to see Bruce Lee films at the pictures, Tank and I got into the coal-selling business – well, for one day anyway! Picking sea coal from the beaches was common in those days; people even had full-time jobs doing it. The tides would wash the coal up on the North Sands in a great strewn mass. We would get two coal sacks from my Uncle Keith’s coal wagon, and then cycle down to the beach, where we would pick ‘sea coals’. We would both sell two sacks of coal for 50p a bag, making a quid each. It was really hard work getting off the beach because the sand was so soft. We had to push the bikes because there was no room to sit with two sacks of coal dangling from the sturdy frame. The key to getting it right was the balance, as otherwise the bags would come straight off. We would return to the housing estate sweating like pigs. As soon as we shouted, ‘Sea coal, 50p a bag,’ they
were sold straight away. It was a good idea, but for some reason we never did it again. Then again, it’s lucky we didn’t go into it full time, as all the coal soon disappeared when Margaret Thatcher took over. Since Thatcherism contributed to the closing of the coastal pits, the amount of sea coal deposited on the beach lessened. Beaches once full of coal wagons and merchants filling their rakings into the carts became a distant memory. Soon after the collieries closed down, and coal-fired power stations became obsolete … doesn’t that say it all?

Another song that takes me back, but for a completely different reason, is Perry Como’s ‘For The Good Times’. Every time I hear it I get a lump in my throat and a tear in my eye. This was the song my mam used to play just after the passing away of my hero – my dad. The death of my father totally devastated me. I am not ashamed to say that I cried and cried. As the New Year turned, his condition had deteriorated, and he had lost weight. The kidney machine had become less and less useful. In the last ten days of March, he became very ill. Mam was phoning the hospital to let them know what was happening, as they were not able to admit him without doctor’s permission. My mother called a doctor out every other day in the hope that they would give permission, but no matter how much she voiced her concerns, they kept on refusing, and just told her to give Dad different drinks, some of which he was not
supposed to have. In the end, the hospital sent out a card for a clinic appointment, which was the only way to get him to the hospital. When the ambulance arrived they immediately put him on oxygen – he had blacked out a few times the day before, but my mam didn’t know it was through lack of oxygen. When he got to the hospital, he was put on a trolley and wheeled into see the doctor while Mam waited in the waiting room. A nurse came into the waiting room within minutes, with the news that he had died. As strange as it may seem, on the morning of his death there was a gathering of grandchildren, nieces and nephews, who had all come to see him within minutes of each other, not knowing that he was going to hospital.

I went into a shell for a year after my dad died. The 1975 FA Cup final between West Ham and Fulham took place only five weeks after his death. My cousin, Steven, came round to watch it with me, but it just wasn’t the same without Dad there. I used to get scared in the house because I could feel a presence there. I didn’t know at the time but it was probably just Dad saying,
Everything is alright, I’m watching over you
. One time, I went home to collect my Uncle Jimmy’s giro. I opened the door, picked it up from the floor and placed it on the little box that covered the electric meter, so I could pick it up on the way out. When I returned to the front door to pick up the giro, it had vanished! I retraced my steps to find it, but I knew for
certain that I’d left the giro next to the door on the little box. I know I did. No one believed me when I told them it had disappeared, but what else could I say? The giro was never cashed. About 18 months later when we moved out of the house it was found under the stairs … unopened. Explain that one?

We went on a family visit to Derby before I could say goodbye to my mates at Rossmere. The purpose of the visit was to see my mam’s stepmother, Rita. We went by train, with a big convoy: there was Mam, her brother Phillip, Aunt Ellen and her four – Tank, Kev, Ste and Kenny – and me. Philly was playing Elvis songs on a cassette player. We met an actor on the train who was in the now axed TV daytime soap
Crossroads,
who played a character called ‘Carney’. He gave us all signed photos of himself. When we finally arrived, Rita, said, ‘Welcome to the house that Jack built.’ We all had to get bathed in front of the fire in an old tin bath, the type you used to see people using in old movies.

Derby was certainly a welcome break, and allowed us to make new friends. In Derby I started getting friendly with a good-looking girl called Angie, who lived in the next street. I fell head over heels in love with her after our first kiss. She had beautiful eyes and long brown hair. We were only 11 years old, so I guess you could call it puppy love. One day I was in Angie’s house when her dad came in and said, ‘If you are going to marry my daughter, you had better live in a mansion.’ I just sat
there speechless. Quite a lot of pressure for an 11-year-old! They say you never forget your childhood sweetheart, and Angie certainly still holds a special place in my heart. I can still vividly remember our parting, when we had a nice snog. She cried her eyes out for me. Whenever I hear the song ‘Angie’ by the Rolling Stones, I am reminded of her. I was lovesick when I got back home to Hartlepool. We exchanged letters for quite some time, and I went back a month later and again about eight months after that. I even had to flatten her jealous ex-boyfriend! A couple of head butts put him right. I spent the whole of my time back then with her and we had some special times together. Mam was thinking about moving there permanently and putting me in a comprehensive school called Bemrose, but in the end I wanted to stay in Hartlepool.

When I started senior school I was still suffering from the affects of my dad’s death and didn’t want to mix with people. I remember one morning in class when someone asked, ‘Has your dad died?’ I replied that he had, and did my best not to cry. I definitely couldn’t be bothered with all the ‘Who’s the best fighter in first year?’ crap and stayed well away from it all. I didn’t start coming out of my shell until a year after Dad’s death. But when I did, I didn’t pull any punches.

There was a local public garden called the Burn Valley, which we had to walk through if we had swimming or field sports. One time I was walking
through when two brothers started staring at me. I stared back.

One of them quipped, ‘Who you looking at?’

I angrily snarled, ‘You!’ One of them started walking over to me. As soon as he was in range, I hammered him with a right hand to the chin that sent him sprawling to the ground. His brother tried to surprise me but I decked him as well, and ended up steaming into him with the boot, just for good measure.

I started courting a girl called Jill Coser who lived round the corner. She had attended the same primary school as our Tank. I always thought she was good looking, but never thought she’d fancy me. She went to my senior school, and I would stare at her when we got off at the bus stop. She would look at me and smile. I thought she was just being polite, but everyday the smiles got bigger. We ended up going out with each other for about 18 months. At Christmas I got her a necklace, just something small made of silver. When you blew at it, it would spin round and you’d see the words
I love you
. I wasn’t soppy or nothing, far from it, but after all, it was Christmas. In return she bought me the latest single by Queen that I liked, called ‘Somebody To Love’. Every time I hear it I am reminded of her.

I had a pal called Coto who had also lost his dad. Now and then he would break down and I would do my best to comfort him because I had been through the same thing. One night, a few of us were talking in
the front room of our house when there was a big loud bang on the bedroom ceiling right above us. Everyone ran out of the house screaming, so shaken up that they wouldn’t return. I had to go upstairs and check that everything was OK. There were certainly some weird things going on.

In the February of 1977, we left the house and moved into a caravan for six months. I had a fight there with a lad who was older than me. I can’t remember what it was about now, but I can recall that he caught me with a couple of good punches. I always fought people older than me. My heart, determination and will to win took over as I landed some hooks to his head. Just as I was moving in to finish him, some big fat geezer – huge in fact – dragged me away to protect the other lad. As I started arguing with the fat geezer, the dirty cunt who I was just about to finish sneaked around the fat fucker and hit me with his best shot, busting my lips. I was going mad to get at him, but the big fat bastard wouldn’t let me and the lad wouldn’t fight back. He knew my rage would have been taken out on his face. He’d given me his best shot and it wasn’t good enough. I’d get older and muscle-packed – his time would come!

Some of these scrapes would revisit me in later life. After all, what goes around comes around. Many years later I was bouncing in a pub when a bully back from the old days turned up with a few of his pals. I was buzzing and hoping there would be trouble, because I’d
waited a lot of years to put this ginger bastard on his arse. My blood ran cold as I watched his every move like a hawk – if he so much as raised his voice I would be over in a shot to tear the limbs from him. I was getting high thinking of all the brutal acts I would carry out on him. Sadly though, there was no trouble that night. I followed him and his pals out of the pub and said a few nasty things to see if he would fire up and take the bait, but his bottle went and he pissed off. He must have seen the fire in my eyes. I got a little satisfaction out of it, but I still wish I could have chinned him.

I started getting back into football too. My Uncle Jimmy went to Wembley in 1976 to watch Newcastle against Manchester City in the Football League Cup Final. Newcastle had a brilliant time, even though they lost 2-1. I was brought a few souvenirs back. There was a big Newcastle flag that I put on my bedroom wall, a Cup Final programme and ticket. I was hooked and have followed Newcastle ever since. Most of the lads round our area supported Manchester United. It gave me great pleasure to laugh like fuck at them and tease them when underdogs Southampton beat them 1-0 in the FA Cup final in 1976 … but then again, it’s only a game. Losing my dad had certainly changed me, and had put things into perspective. But I was gradually coming out of my shell with the passing of time.