killer instinct.

Two Boxers

'Hit him – hit him' said my dad 'hit him again.'

We were boxing – in our living room.

'Not so hard' he said as my brother caught me with a sharp one, under the ribs.

The chairs were around the side, with the tables and other pieces of furniture, etc shoved right in to the wall.

When it was over we both said 'who won?'

'It was a draw.' my dad said.

It was always a draw.

Sometimes I would have to stop when my shorts started to fall down.

“Ah nobody's looking' said my mother 'you haven't got anything I haven't seen before.'

My dad would shout for us to break and pull my pants up. 

It wasn't long since I had grown pubic hair and I didn't want my mother seeing that.

'He can't box with his shorts round his ankles' he said.

'Jasus, it's not been that long since I was cleaning the bits of shite from his nappy.'

Trust my mam; making a holy show of me.

We had boxing in the gym at school in those days, during the PE lesson and also, in those days, I think we still called it PT. But there we go when has there ever been a time when things don't get called something else for the sake of it.

I must have been the shortest kid in the class so who would they put me in the ring with?

Johnny, one of the big kids. He was a pal of mine; we used to go to each other's homes and listen to our parents' records.

Out he lumbered, Big John – just like in the song.

I liked the way he sparred but he must have been posing as he danced around. We threw a few jabs, ducked a few times and then, coming out of a clinch, he stuck his chin out; I didn't hit it. This happened quite a few times and when we finished the teacher patted me on the head; I'd won. Well I reckoned I had.

When we were in the playground, later, I was asked how I got on and I said I'd won. 'no you didn't' said Johnny.

'I did' I said 'the teacher patted me on the head.'

'He patted me too,' said Johnny, but I knew hadn't.

'No he didn't' I said.

'Do you want to make something of it?'

I looked around. My pal – Johnny – looked at me with a certain amount of hate; there were others looking at me too to see what I was going to do.

'What do you mean?' I said. I knew what he meant then the kids started to chant: 'chicken! Chicken! CHICKEN!'

'I don't mind' I said.

'Unless you're chicken' said Johnny, who was fast becoming plain John in my mind.

'Okay' I said 'where shall we go?'

The kids started to form a circle outside the boys' lavatories in the corner of the playground and in no time we were dancing around. We threw a few punches, got in to a clinch and as we came out of the clinch he stuck his chin out and bang! I hit him a wallop and down he went.

I didn't, to this day, think the punch was very hard and that he was acting, the same way as he was posing when we got inside the ropes in class. But there he was on the ground.

Up he got – there was no counting as there was no referee.

We started dancing again and once again he stuck his chin out and down he went.

He wasn't badly hurt but playtime was over and we'd finished playing.

The little boxing lessons from my dad taught me how to throw a punch and defend myself even though my brother would never go down but I was never worried about getting hurt at home, it was when I feared getting hurt that the survival and killer instinct kicked in.

The reason I got in to a few fights at school was that being so short I looked easy for a bully who wanted to beat somebody up and I didn't always win but school was and is still rough.

It's no good telling tales to your parents or the teacher. To do that you have to be beaten up first and I didn't want that.

One kid in class, when we were at the senior school, was picking on me, poking me and being nasty, saying he was going to wait for me outside and beat me up and that all his mates were going to come and see me get a blathering.

I told him a few times that we didn't have to but he mistook that for me being scared and, to be honest, I wasn't that sure if I could handle him.

But the time came for us to go home and I was ready to go; I went down to the playground at the same time as the bully, but ahead of his mates and when we got to the corner of the playground he said 'come on' and started squaring up so I gave him a huge punch to the eye.

'Oh!' he said, grabbing his eye, then I put my arm around his neck and we both fell to the ground with him in a clinch.

'had enough?' I said.

He nodded his head.

'Are you sure?' I was used to kids playing possum.

'Yes I've had enough' he said 'let go.'

So we got up.

'How's my eye?' he said.

I looked; it was bloodshot.

'Sorry' he said.

Then his mates came to watch the scrap.

'What happened' they said.

'It's all over' and I sat on the floor next to me new pal.

I used to like boxing but didn't bother again with it much as I had high cheek bones which would bruise easily and my nose would bleed even easier.

But I was never scared of anybody after that even though I never looked for trouble but I have heard of people wanting to fight all the time and look for fights in pubs or whatever.

When I lived in a village in Northamptonshire I heard that the vicar's son went in to the pub, one day, and sucker punched someone as the fella was drinking his beer. He saw the jaw and hit it. The poor fella suffered a broken jaw and the bully got away with it.

I'm not sure if I would ever dive in if it was nothing to do with me but – you know we never know what we would do in a crisis.