Читать книгу Roy Shaw Unleashed - He's a one man killing machine. This is his story by those who know him best - Roy Shaw - Страница 10
ОглавлениеIT WAS A PROPER EAST END PUB, NO FRILLS OR FANCIES OR WINE BAR PRETENSIONS – THERE WEREN’T EVEN CARPETS OR DECENT CURTAINS, JUST CURLING CIGAR SMOKE AND AN ATMOSPHERE YOU COULD CUT WITH A KNIFE. The place was packed, buzzing with noise and wall-to-wall with blokes past their prime, pot-bellied and flat-nosed pug-ugly. These guys were talking fast, huddled in groups, leaning on the bar and pressed up against the walls. They were drinking beer, bobbing and weaving, ducking and diving as they re-enacted their last fight, or the one before – even the boxing they’d seen on Sky the previous evening – ‘If only … ya should ’a’ seen it … he came at me with a right hook … he went down for eight … it oughta have been …’
These blokes don’t have blood in their veins – it’s testosterone!
My partner, Leo, is a boxer himself; even so, I felt a bit uncomfortable being there. These past-their-prime pugilists were still trying to win their fights – but now it was verbal sparring – each one of them was trying to outdo the other. It was all egos – World Champions, British Champions, Gold Medal Winners, Middleweight, Heavyweight – they were all there, the best of British Boxing – and the could-have-beens, the might-have-dones, all the boxing world’s movers, shakers, fixers and hangers-on. They were all trying it on.
Living in the past most of them. I found it quite sad that these tough men were still reliving their fights, their glory days, their hard-luck stories – the fights they’d won and the fights they’d lost. They were still matching themselves with boxers they wished they’d fought … or wished they hadn’t.
I noticed that, as they were talking, their eyes were constantly darting round the room. There was an element of tension; I sensed they were waiting for something; an unspoken question was hanging in the air. The Pearly King and Queen were standing in the far corner – we were in for a knees-up and a rendition of ‘Roll out the Barrel’ and ‘Show Me the Way to Go Home’. Was it to do with them? But why? I knew they were popular but these guys were on pins. I studied the crowd.
It took me a few minutes to figure it out. No, it wasn’t the buttons they were looking at – it was the table next to them, it was loaded down with food. All eyes were focused on the lavish finger buffet – sandwiches, vol-au-vents, lots of plates covered in Bacofoil and underneath it were lots of goodies – cocktail sausages, ham, cheese and pineapple on little sticks and, best of all, spicy chicken wings. Mmmm.
The same question was on everyone’s mind: when are we going to eat? But they’d have to wait, there were speeches first.
Roy was in no mood for socialising. He’d been out the night before and wanted to get this done and dusted. He pushed his way to the bar and ordered three glasses of sparkling water with lime juice and lots of ice and lemon. ‘Right,’ he said, rubbing his hands. ‘Who do you want to interview first?’
As we sipped our drinks, a buzz went round the pub – ‘Roy’s in.’ Within minutes, there was a seemingly endless stream of wide-shouldered blokes with noses as wide as double wardrobes, all coming up to shake hands and say hello.
Roy spoke to each one of them warmly and sincerely. ‘Nice to see you, my old mate …’ and ‘How are you doing, son?’
But he kept turning to me, his face blank. ‘Who the hell was that?’ All these people seemed to know him like a blood brother, but he didn’t have a clue who most of them were. ‘I’ve never been very good with names,’ he hissed out of the side of his mouth. Even so, he was as polite as always, said a few words and wished them well.
At the far end of the room there was a long table and sitting behind it was Terry Spinks MBE, former British Heavyweight Champion.
Roy, Leo and I sat down near the front. I knew some of the other geezers and Roy knew them all. ‘That’s Reg Gutteridge,’ he whispered.
‘The boxing commentator?’ I asked.
Roy nodded. ‘World famous.’
Next to him was Bob Lonkhurst from the Boxing Board of Control.
The speeches started, first one boxer then another came up to the front to have a few words and give their good wishes to the champ.
Looking at Terry, I could see that he wasn’t in the best of health, but all these boxers, world champions and fellow sportsmen had turned up to give him their support. It was an emotional moment for him. One by one they went up and said their piece. I watched them and studied them carefully. Their words were eloquent and sincere but their eyes gave it away. What they were really interested in was the finger buffet.
The tributes and greetings were finally over. Roy started to get up.
‘One more to go,’ I told him. It was Bob Lonkhurst, the ghost-writer. He started his speech. At the start everyone was quiet, you could have heard a pin drop. Five minutes into it and there was a general shuffling – the boxers had returned their attention from the good words back to the Bacofoil.
These guys were getting desperate to know – was it really spicy chicken wings, or was it all cheese and pineapple? This was important, these guys are carnivores. They didn’t want vegetarian. But Bob went on and on.
People began murmuring, ‘How much longer?’ A whisper went round, ‘Is he reading the whole book?’
These are not the sort of geezers to sit through a lengthy speech. They do their talking with their fists, the universal language. Punching the hell out of each other is the form of communication they understand. Bob was still in full flow, but now nobody was listening.
Roy was sitting next to me like a rock. The finger buffet didn’t hold the same appeal for him as it did for the others. He watches his diet and keeps in shape. No cholesterol. But the rest of the room was filled with an air of anticipation and trepidation. Was it meat under the silver wrapping or not? When could they start? Would there be enough to go round? At last somebody hissed, ‘Shut the fuck up, Bob!’ He looked a bit surprised but took the hint. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I believe there are some refreshments waiting’ He gestured towards the very patient and still smiling Pearly King and Queen before going on, ‘and in the right corner, weighing in at several hundred pounds, we have, courtesy of our generous host, a veritable feast of refreshments! Please help yourself to the finger buffet.’
There was a polite murmur of applause as cauliflower ears pricked up. Yeah! This was it! The Bacofoil was coming off! Chairs scraped on the floor as they were pushed back. Everyone shoved and muscled their way towards the tables. The suspense was over. Yes! Yes! Yes! It was juicy, spicy chicken.
It only took ten minutes and all that was left were bones – strewn across the floor. I’d never seen men eat, fight and talk at the same time, but these blokes managed it. They were ducking and weaving and jabbing and bobbing even with their mouths full of chicken. I was trapped in the middle, doing a bit of dodging myself to scramble out of the way.
I had to get clear, there was chicken skin flying through the air, corned beef sandwiches clasped in meaty hands, slivers of pink ham dangling from mouth corners.
The atmosphere was filled with giant egos and testosterone. Each bloke was trying to get more, eat quicker, do better than the next. I made it back to where Roy was standing, well clear of the ruck. He looked at me and shook his head. It seemed as though the next fight was going to be over the finger buffet.
Eventually the table was empty and everything began to simmer down. They went back to talking about their fights, the winning, losing, the fame, the money, the good luck, bad luck and the hard work. I listened to them, it was all the same. They were all set on one thing – being the best. This was all that mattered to them.
I wondered if they’d have agreed to talk to me if Roy hadn’t been present. I didn’t think so.
I wanted to know what he thought about it all. ‘Do you think these guys are a bit egotistical?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ he agreed. ‘They all love the limelight.’
Roy was, as always, honest. I still couldn’t understand why they were all so involved. ‘These men are rich, they’re already famous and successful, but here they are on a Thursday afternoon, sitting in an East End pub, still talking about their glory days.’
Roy nodded. ‘I can understand it. They’re finding it hard to let go. When something’s part of your life, like boxing, you can’t give it up.’
I didn’t think that many of them had even tried.
They were living as much of the same old lifestyle as they could, talking about boxing, thinking about boxing, going round to the gym, except instead of training they were fund-raising for this or that charity or talking about the book they’d just published.
‘Do you think that boxing is just a job?’ I asked Roy.
‘No way. It’s not something you can do nine to five. It’s a hundred per cent way of life.’
‘Yes. I can see that. It doesn’t matter whether they’re 16 or 60, does it?’
‘They dedicate themselves to it totally. They never lose their will to win. It’s grit and guts and determination.’ Roy was jabbing as he spoke, his fingers pointing in the air.
I realised how much it meant to Roy, to all of them. What came across was that boxing isn’t a job, it’s not something you do nine to five, it’s a way of life. Whatever their age, they dedicate themselves to it totally. They never lose their will to win.
When I met them at Terry Spinks’s pub, that’s what came across. Once they’re hooked, boxing owns them. Once a fighter, always a fighter, that’s what gets them to the top.
