Born to Fight

By Richy Horsley, Stephen Richards

John Blake Publishing Ltd

Copyright © 2008 Richy Horsley/ Stephen Richards
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84454-556-8

Contents

Title Page,
Dedication,
FOREWORD BY DAVE COURTNEY,
TRIBUTES TO RICHY 'CRAZY HORSE' HORSLEY,
INTRODUCTION,
CHAPTER 1 CIRCLE OF LIFE,
CHAPTER 2 TANK THE BLEEDER,
CHAPTER 3 FISTS OF FURY,
CHAPTER 4 HONOUR AND PRIDE,
CHAPTER 5 FIGHTING LIKE A LION,
CHAPTER 6 THE FIRE IN MY EYES,
CHAPTER 7 CROMBIE COATS AND HAPPY DAYS,
CHAPTER 8 THE SMELL OF BLOOD, SWEAT & GREASED LIGHTNING,
CHAPTER 9 MAKE MY DAY, PUNK,
CHAPTER 10 TRADING BLOWS, TOE-TO-TOE,
CHAPTER 11 LION HEART,
CHAPTER 12 BLOOD TUB,
CHAPTER 13 PREDATOR,
CHAPTER 14 IT'S THE WEAK MAN WHO HOLDS BACK HIS TEARS,
CHAPTER 15 CRAZY HORSE,
CHAPTER 16 BOYS TO MEN,
CHAPTER 17 FIRE ARM,
CHAPTER 18 IT'S NICE TO BE IMPORTANT, BUT IT'S IMPORTANT TO BE NICE,
CHAPTER 19 SUICIDE IS PAINFUL,
CHAPTER 20 THE LONDON RETURN OF CRAZY HORSE,
CHAPTER 21 UNFINISHED BUSINESS,
BOXING CORNER,
EPILOGUE,
Other titles by Stephen Richards available from John Blake Publishing,
Copyright,

CHAPTER 1

CIRCLE OF LIFE

Never judge a book by its cover. Take my childhood: judging by my present record of violence, you would think that I was brought up in an abattoir, but you would be wrong. I came from a happy home, where my parents lavished me with love. There was no family brutality of any sort. I recall being told from an early age that I was miraculously found under a gooseberry bush, which to some extent wasn't as far removed from the truth as it may sound.

When I reached the age of five, I was told I had been adopted as a baby. At that time I was gun and holster mad, a bit of a lone ranger, as was the rage in those days. My parents, Tom and Brenda, told me that when they saw a number of kids for adoption, they picked me out as being special. They waited apprehensively for my reaction, but I just looked up and chimed, 'Did I have my guns on?' That's how life was back then ... not so long ago!

My childhood memories are fond ones, which every kid should be able to experience. My mother always instilled a sense of self-worth and paved the way ahead by showing me what respect for my elders was all about. I remember, for instance, jumping up and down in a muddy puddle at the age of five, absolutely covered in clarts of mud from head to toe. An old lady from down the road walked past and saw the state of disorder I was in. She gasped, 'Richard, look at the state of you, your mam will go mad!' Now don't ask me where my reply came from, but I looked at her and fumed, 'Fuck off!' Of course, Mam found out and took me to the old dear's house and forced me to apologise. Mam always presented me to the world in a clean and tidy fashion ... oh, and I always wore shorts! Not many hard bastards can say that about their childhoods.

Yet even though my parents treated me with the best care, it didn't take long for me to discover the world of pain for myself. I recall an incident in the summer of that year when Bobbin, a good friend of my mam's, took me to Crimdon Dene, a nearby holiday town, for the day. Bobbin's real name was Anne, but I renamed her because she used to play a game with me called 'Roll-a-Bobbin'. That name, Bobbin, has stuck – even after hitting sixty! It had been an exciting and tiring day, but when we arrived back home at teatime I still wanted to be out with my friends. After thanking Bobbin and saying my goodbyes, I paused outside the door, stupidly resting my fingers on the door frame. But Mam thought I'd gone out and closed the door. My dear late mam, to her shock, heard the CRUNCH, followed by my screaming. When she prised open the door, she saw me stood there with my finger end hanging off, blood and gore everywhere!

This was my first introduction to real pain and it showed me that I could be hurt ... a valuable lesson at an early age, but not one that I would recommend! I was rushed to the hospital and had the end of my finger stitched back on. This of course was in the days before microsurgery. The doctors did the best they could, a good job given the circumstances, but I was left with a disfigured finger end, a stark reminder as to how vulnerable we all are.

I was lucky, as my parents never overreacted when I got into scrapes. Take, for instance, my first drinking experience non New Year's Day, 1970. There was a drinks table in the corner of the living room, full of bottles of sherry. Mam asked Bobbin to watch over me and to see to it that I didn't touch any of the drinks when her and Dad went into the kitchen to cook. Of course, with the seasonal festivities, Bobbin was a bit tired and had a stonker of a hangover from the night before, and soon fell fast asleep on the couch. On seeing this, I edged closer and closer towards the table. Like the male dancer in the Guinness advert, I contorted and twisted myself in order to avoid making any unnecessary noise as I slithered towards my prize. Eventually, after a few nimble moves, I reached my destination, and sat down contently at the table. I swiftly helped myself to a bottle of QC sherry. After guzzling most of it down, I was rewarded by becoming utterly and completely pissed out of my mind.

I started stumbling all over the place whilst laughing my intoxicated head off. On hearing this commotion, Mam came into the room, pointed at me and said, 'What's the matter with him?' She spotted the half empty bottle of QC sherry on the floor at the exact same time as Bobbin was awakened by my shenanigans and realised what was happening. She pleaded, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry!'

Mam cried out, 'He'll have to go to the hospital now!'

But Dad calmly said, 'Put him to bed and let him sleep it off.'

And that's what they did. My mother was beside herself with worry in case I choked on vomit, and was constantly doing bed watch on me every ten minutes, but they never overreacted. When I came back down later on, I was rough and hung over for the rest of the day, but at least it gave me an appetite, as I ate all my cooked dinner, a miracle for me as I was a very bad eater. I was practically brought up on Ready Brek and Minodex multi-vitamins.

At that time, the Weegram family lived next door to us. They had a son called Donald who was also my age and a firm friend. He was a fellow explorer of the world of pain. One day in 1969 we were playing a game to see how high we could throw darts into the air. Well, Donald propelled one up high, forgetting Isaac Newton's Law of Gravity. It shot back down, heading straight for me. The dart hit me like a bullet from a gun – not that I knew the feeling, at least not at that age! I ran into the house, a screaming human dartboard. I was in shock, painful shock, with a dart sticking out of my neck. I must have looked like the son of William Tell. I remember thinking to myself, was this it, was this how death was?

Another time, Donald and me were in my bedroom while his mam, Hilary, was having a cuppa downstairs. Normally we were very noisy, but on this particular day we were unusually quiet. When Hilary was ready to leave, she and my parents decided to come upstairs to see why we were being so quiet. They opened the door and were met by quite a sight: me and Donald standing with knitting needles in our hands, surrounded by the shreds of wallpaper which we had innocently stripped from half the bedroom walls! Oh heck! I thought I was in for it, but instead of...