Wild Thing (2 page)

I called my two dogs, an English bull terrier and a Staffordshire bull terrier, and took them to the park in an effort to kill time. Around 6 p.m. I picked my kitbag up, draped my dressing gown over my arm and walked to my car. I knew I wouldn’t be fighting until much later that night, as my bout with Shaw was billed as the main event.

I wanted to get to the venue early so that I could soak up the atmosphere and get accustomed to my surroundings. Preparation, preparation: winning fights is all about preparation. Driving away from home, I kept thinking about the night ahead. I had been to watch Shaw fight three or four times. He was no fool but I knew if I caught him with the full force of either hand, I would knock him spark out. I had arranged to pick my good friend Ray Todd up from his home in Stratford. Two short sharp blasts of my car horn brought Ray to his front door. He raised his hand, disappeared back inside his flat and moments later came bounding towards me with his coat thrown over his shoulder. At approximately 7 p.m. we arrived at the Ilford Palais nightclub, where the fight was due to take place. I couldn’t quite believe the number of people that were milling around in the High Street. There were literally thousands of them trying to get in to witness the fight. When Ray and I pulled up outside the Palais, people gathered around the car and started asking whether I felt confident, whether I was going to win, whether I feared Shaw. I asked those standing in the road to move aside, as I was going to pull away. ‘Where are you going, Lew?’ they asked. ‘Surely you haven’t changed your mind?’

‘I have bottled it,’ I replied. ‘I’m scared; I’m going home.’

Everybody was laughing; nobody who knew me thought for a moment I had changed my mind. Ray and I drove down Ilford High Street in search of a parking space. We eventually found one in a side road. I grabbed my kitbag off the back seat and we made our way back to the venue. When we reached the front door, a huge guy named Ginger Ted was collecting tickets. ‘Hello, Lew,’ he said. ‘Come on in.’

The scene inside the club was even more chaotic than outside. So many people had purchased tickets that they had to stand on tables, chairs and even the bar to see the ring. Ray and I were led upstairs to a dressing-room, where my corner men Neville Sheen, Mickey Kane and his cousin Roy were waiting. We sat talking tactics for a while, and then I got changed. Shortly afterwards a doctor came in to see if I was physically fit to fight. He checked my blood pressure, listened to my heart, looked into my eyes and gave me the thumbs up. As the doctor was leaving, a man entered the dressing-room and introduced himself. ‘Don Atyeo,’ he said, extending his hand for me to shake. ‘I am a journalist from
Time Out
magazine. I would like to interview you about the fight tonight.’ Atyeo asked me how I was feeling, about my fights as an amateur and about my current physical condition. I told him that I had weighed in at 18.5 st., I intended to defeat Shaw, I felt fit and was raring to go. This was not entirely true: I was 21.5 st., had only trained for six weeks for the fight and was suffering from a stomach hernia. I lied because I knew Atyeo would talk to Shaw at some point and I didn’t want him to know that I was too heavy or that the mere six weeks Shaw’s camp had given me to train for the fight hadn’t allowed me to reach the peak of my physical fitness. This wasn’t paranoia taking over; when Shaw was training for a fight with Donny ‘The Bull’ Adams, he had been watched by film producer Bob Brown. Afterwards Brown, who was considering making a film about unlicensed fighting, told Shaw that he was going to watch Adams train so that he could compare the two fighters. Later that night Shaw had telephoned Brown and asked how Adams appeared to be shaping up. Shaw later admitted that after hearing how impressive his opponent had been, he had begun to doubt that he could win the fight. I didn’t want Shaw knowing anything about me or the condition I was in. From the dressing-room I could hear the crowd roaring as the other fighters on the bill slugged it out in the ring.

I could almost smell the stench of violence in the air. A friend of mine named Barry Dalton, known as The Mad Irishman, was fighting a man named Chris Ball from Chingford in Essex. Barry was an awesome fighter, more crash, bang, wallop than skill, but he had the heart of a lion. I would regularly meet Barry at prizefights, gyms and the various clubs around London that fighters, bouncers and criminal ‘faces’ frequented. Few had a good word for Barry, but he was always well mannered and polite when in my company. Regardless of what others may say, I thought Barry Dalton was a good man. His fight was first on the bill, so I did not get an opportunity to watch it. I wasn’t concerned, because I had no doubt that Barry and I would bump into each other at some stage during the night.

Donny ‘The Bull’ Adams is one of the greatest prizefighters of all time. During his distinguished career he had 48 fights and 48 wins. That was until he met Roy Shaw in December 1975. When the pre-match hype had reached fever pitch, both men boasted that they were going to have a bare-knuckle ‘fight to the death’. News of the fighters’ intentions reached the ears of the authorities and, after all sorts of legal rumblings, which threatened to have the event postponed, they agreed that they would wear gloves. Gangster Joe Pyle promoted the fight, which was held at Billy Smart’s ‘Big Top’ Circus tent in Windsor, Berkshire. As soon as the bell went to signal round one, Shaw threw a right hook that knocked Adams over. Instead of waiting for his opponent to get to his feet, Shaw kept punching Adams, picking him up, knocking him back down and finally stamping on his head. People in the crowd were screaming, ‘He is dead, Roy. He is dead. Leave him.’ Adams was not dead but he was certainly unconscious. A fight that people had expected to be an epic battle had ended in seconds, and Roy Shaw was crowned the Guv’nor.

When Donny ‘The Bull’ Adams walked into my dressing-room unannounced, I couldn’t quite believe it. ‘I wanted to wish you luck, Lew,’ he said. ‘Use your weight against Roy. Lean on him, push him; you can beat him.’ I thought it was a nice gesture, as we had not previously met, and so I thanked him.

Just after he left, a man wearing a white shirt and bow tie put his head around the door and asked, ‘Are you ready, Lew?’ I told him I was. ‘You’re on in five minutes,’ the man replied. I could hear the MC announcing on the PA system that the fight was due to start. The crowd began cheering, clapping their hands and stamping their feet. I pulled the hood of my dressing gown up over my head and made my way to the ring. Getting there was no easy task. People were reaching out, trying to shake my hand or pat me on the back. There were so many well-wishers I ended up having to push some of them out of the way in order to keep moving. The theme song for my entrance into the arena should have been ‘Wild Thing’ by the Troggs, but my friend had forgotten to bring the record, so I walked out to the Emerson, Lake and Palmer version of ‘Fanfare for the Common Man’. As I climbed into the ring, I could see for the first time just how many people had been packed in to watch the fight. The atmosphere that night was electric, the noise deafening. It was hard not to be distracted, but I kept telling myself to focus on the task ahead. The voice of Gary Glitter, then pop star, now disgraced paedophile, boomed out of the PA system: ‘Do you wanna be in my gang, my gang, my gang?’ It was Shaw’s entrance theme song. As he entered the ring, I glared at him in an effort to block out everything else around me. He was wearing a white towelling dressing gown with ‘Mean Machine’ embroidered in large red letters across the back. We couldn’t hear what the referee was saying, so he motioned Shaw and me to the middle of the ring with a wave of his hand. The MC introduced us to the crowd, which was baying for blood as if we were gladiators.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the bout everybody has been waiting for, a heavyweight contest of ten three-minute rounds. In the red corner, weighing in at 15 st. 11 lb, London’s very own Mean Machine, Roy “Pretty Boy” Shaw! And in the blue corner, weighing in at 21 st., Liverpool hard man Lew “Wild Thing” Yates!’

I wanted to look Shaw in the eye, make him feel uncomfortable, but he kept his head down, raising his gaze no higher than my chest. The referee checked our bandaged hands to ensure no foreign objects had been secreted to gain an advantage. It was not unknown for strips of lead or similar material to be wrapped up within the bandages in order to inflict serious injury on an opponent. The referee was happy that Shaw and I had no such items and told us to return to our corners to put our gloves on. My corner men began to advise me: ‘Bull Shaw around. Use your weight, Lew. Lean on him, push him, tire him and wear him down.’ As they were talking, the bell rang for the first round.

Shaw and I flew across the ring at each other, clashing like two bulls, our heads rather than our fists making first contact. I opened up with a barrage of punches and began pushing him backwards around the ring using my superior size and weight. I was surprised at how little resistance Shaw put up, to be honest. I thought that he would be much stronger. I was moving around well, jabbing him, shoving him, even dropping my hands, goading him to hit me in the hope that he would either feel intimidated or lose his temper and drop his guard. Before long Shaw began to swing wildly. Several punches missed me completely; those that did connect were ineffective. The thought of being humiliated in front of his home crowd was obviously getting to him. To antagonise him further I invited him to hit my chin, which I stuck out for him, but Shaw stood off, seemingly confused by my lack of respect for his awesome reputation. Towards the end of the round he did catch me with an explosive right hook in the ribs that temporarily winded me.

I dropped to one knee to regain my breath, then immediately stood upright to show the referee that I was able to box on. I needed to avoid Shaw for a while so that I could regain my composure. I moved around the ring, ducking and weaving as Shaw’s arms flailed wildly but without effect. Before he could close in, make his punches connect and capitalise on my injury, the bell rang, signalling the end of the round. Despite succumbing to that one crippling punch, I knew I had given a good account of myself. Sitting in my corner, I decided that I was going to ignore Donny ‘The Bull’ Adams’ and my corner men’s advice about pushing and shoving Shaw. I told myself that I was going to do my own thing: stay at arm’s length and box his ‘pretty’ head off his shoulders. As soon as the bell rang for round two, I was out in the middle of the ring and pounding Shaw. A right-hander snapped his head back, and I knew at once that I had hurt him. As Shaw tried to get in close to stop the onslaught, I pushed him away with my left and smashed him with my right. He did manage to land a few defensive jabs, but they were weak and had no effect whatsoever. One minute and twenty seconds into the round I caught him with a perfect uppercut before following through with a fast combination of punches to the head and body. Shaw staggered, and I drove him back across the ring, landing punch after punch as he went. When he hit the ropes, he dropped his hands and my fists smashed his head from side to side. He resembled a rag doll being tossed about the ring. I knew this was the moment; I knew I had defeated ‘London’s Mean Machine’. I caught him with a beautiful right hook that knocked his head and shoulders through the top rope. I stood back and, as Shaw ducked his head back under the rope in order to stand upright, I head-butted him full in the face. The legendary prizefighter was finished. He fell back onto the ropes, and as I moved in for the kill, the bell rang to signal the end of the round. Shaw’s manager Joe Carrington was already in the ring steadying him on his feet.

I walked to my corner and was told there was still one minute and twelve seconds of the round remaining. The crowd had realised it too. ‘Fix, fix, fucking fix!’ they screamed. I sat on my stool, my head bowed. I could not believe they had rang the bell early just to save Shaw. The referee came over to me and was shouting about disqualifying me for using my head. ‘Any more headwork and the fight is over. Do you understand?’

‘Sure, sure,’ I replied. I was upset that the round had been cut short, but I was confident I could finish the task in hand because Shaw was out on his feet. He’d had little to offer at the outset; now, after less than two full rounds, he had nothing. When the bell rang at the start of the third round, I walked out feeling totally confident of victory. I wasn’t as strong as I had been in the second round, but I still out-boxed Shaw and I still managed to toy with him. I could see he was still dazed from the force of my head-butt, and I sensed he had lost the will to come hard at me. To be honest, I was enjoying myself. My eye was swollen from when we had clashed heads in the opening round, but, apart from that minor injury, I was unharmed. At the end of the third round I returned to my corner. Without warning, and without even examining me, the referee said, ‘I am stopping this fight because of your eye. It’s over.’

‘What’s up with my fucking eye?’ I shouted. ‘What’s up with my eye? There is fuck all wrong with me!’ My corner men were equally surprised and irate, and they too began shouting and swearing at the referee. ‘It’s over, it’s over,’ the referee kept shouting back at us as he waved his arms and walked around the ring.

The crowd realised what was happening and went wild, booing and chanting, ‘Fix! Fix! Fix!’ I wanted to get out of there; I felt absolutely disgusted. As I climbed out of the ring and headed for the dressing-room, a fighter named Kevin Paddock got in and challenged Shaw to fight at a later date.

He was pushed aside by a man mountain named Lenny McLean, who offered to fight Shaw and Paddock together there and then. When both men ignored him, McLean began brawling with Shaw’s manager Joe Carrington, but they were quickly hauled apart. The scene descended into total chaos. People were shouting, others were threatening one another. The crowd engulfed me, patting me on the back and shaking my hand. None of them seemed in any doubt that I had won. They were saying ‘You were robbed, Lew’ and ‘That was a fix, a fucking set-up.’ Back in the dressing-room I couldn’t quite believe that victory had been snatched from me. As I sat there, Joe Carrington walked in and presented me with a huge bottle of champagne. ‘This is for you, Lew,’ he said. I looked at the champagne, looked at Carrington and told him to stuff his poxy bottle where the sun doesn’t shine. The champagne was left on a table and Carrington walked out. As he stepped into the corridor, he was confronted by a group of men who started shouting at him. ‘That fight was a fucking fix, Joe. You’re taking the piss if you try and say it wasn’t.’