Ben Doughty: The Life and Crimes of a Boxing Doyen

Sep 28, 2017
279
557
32
This was over 340 pages ago. How could you have doubted the doyens contentability

I have to say this whole thing seems to be running out of steam...I have heard from a reliable source that the doyen is paying his debts, working, no longer living on people's couches, and is no longer drinking. I'm really pleased if this is the case....everyone can end up in fucked up situations but it would seem he is rectifying his....not that I'm being a spoil sport. I just get the impression there won't be as much material for this thread as there was when it started...
 
Sep 28, 2017
279
557
32
"Lubricated by the close proximity of violence" will always be the greatest use of the English language of all time.

Followed closely by "you lack ambition as a fan"


I used to get a lot more challenges ,back in the day, when I looked like a glam rock boy who couldn't knock out a w***.
Here is a little excerpt from my autobiography that I'm currently working on.

The story transcribed below is a hundred percent true and one of many dysfunctional tales in the book. To give you a mental lucite of how the scene looked, here's a photo form the same year
Enjoy:

'' I still saw Alan from time to time and still had a key for his place that he'd given me when we lived in each other's pockets. One evening in mid March, I decided to pay him a surprise visit. He didn't have a landline phone anyhow and nobody had a mobile, although they probably just about existed in primitive form. Spring had yet to kick in so it was dark but for the street lights as I stood outside the front door on Sheen Road and inserted the key.

For some reason I was having trouble turning it and, necessarily, my left elbow protruded at a right angle while I tried to open the door. As I struggled with the lock I suddenly felt something solid collide with my elbow and turned around to see what Andy would have called a 'lad' glaring at me with a mixture of confusion and reproachfulness.

He had clearly been on the sauce or else he wouldn't have banged his head on my elbow in the first place. As ever, I didn't want any trouble so I said, "Sorry, mate."
In cockney parlance, he 'screwed' me and said 'WHAT....?!"
"Sorry, mate." I repeated.
I'm pretty sure he must have heard me but, once again, he shouted, "WHAT...?!"
I was losing patience already.
"Sorry about that, mate, but it was probably your fault, to be honest."
"My fault....? Ow's it MY fucking fault then...? I 'fink you're a wanker anyway. The way you're dressed."

To place this gauntlet in context, he was dressed like a typical lad who drank in the Black Horse and probably lived near the lower Mortlake road. Jeans, shirt and brown leather jacket. I was wearing black PVC trousers, an Aerosmith T-Shirt with a cut off denim jacket, cowboy boots and an elaborate purple silk scarf. The time for arbitration was over. With his reference to onanism ,and the quite unsolicited sartorial barb, he had lit the fuse as Nigel Benn was fond of saying.

He squared up to me.... I immediately nailed him with a big right hand that landed squarely above his left eye. I did use my jab in street fights but most of the 'Friday night gangsters' were so useless that you could hit them right off the bat with a lead right or left hook so why bother with range finders...?

I followed up with a left hook and then grabbed him in a headlock and rammed his skull into the betting shop window. Not hard, but to assert my authority over the situation.
At this point a black guy who was waiting for a bus came over to get a closer view of the unscheduled entertainment. This constituted an audience and I could never resist putting on a show so I dropped my hands like Kirkland Laing and dared my adversary to hit me. He swung a few times and missed as I peppered him wth counters and encouraged the poor sod to try harder.

Poor sod is about about right as I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for him, To receive this kind of schooling from a bloke in eyeliner and PVC trousers must have seemed like a bad dream and duly convinced him to give up the ghost and try a change of tactics. He placed his right hand inside his jacket, as if to imply he was concealing a knife , or similarly dangerous item, and said, "C'mon then... Ave 'anuvver shot at me..."

I didn't believe he had a weapon but saw it as sign of surrender. On the street, it was always my M.O to establish superiority and leave it there. I never wanted to hurt anyone and couldn't ever bring myself to stomp a man on the ground or use a 'tool'.

I told him to "Watch your manners next time and you won't get hurt." before turning my back and reinserting the key in the door.
"If that's the way you wannit," he warned, "I know where you live... I could get the firm down 'ere."
"Course you could, " I replied.

The lock appeared to have been lubricated by the proximity of violence so I opened the door and ascended the two flights of stairs to Alan's room. It seemed appropriate to mention what had just taken place on he street and, true to form, he scolded me.
"Ben, don't have fights outside MY door. What If they do come back...?" He recovered his sense of machismo quickly enough to say, "I mean, I'm not worried about myself but I've got a lot of expensive equipment in here."

I assumed he was referring to the PA system that made The Uninvited Guests a commercial viability in the beer houses of Chiswick and beyond. Before I could explain that the altercation had been regrettable but unavoidable there was a knock at the door. Not expecting guests and naturally vigilant, Alan peered out of his window and saw that there was a squad car parked outside. Never mind 'the Firm' this guy had gone squealing to the boys in blue.

Since the Richmond Constabulary had never been noted for their fairness and diplomacy, he pushed me into the bathroom and told me to lock the door while he went downstairs to deal wth the situation.

Alan answered the door and the two officers informed him that the drunken young man in the brown leather jacket with the large swelling over his left eye was alleging that he'd been assaulted and that he had seen his assailant enter the property 5 minutes ago. He feigned surprise and invited them to come inside to search the building while insisting that the drunk man in the leather jacket must remain outside as he didn't know him from Adam.

The other two tenants, Glen and 'Torquay Peter' , were out so Alan exhibited their empty rooms before taking Good Cop and Even Better Cop to his own room on the second floor to prove that it was clearly devoid of any other occupants. They were about to leave when one of them noticed the closed bathroom door and asked, "Whose room is this...?" Thinking on his feet, Alan suddenly knocked the door and enquired,

"Are you still in the bath, Sal....?"

It occurred to me to respond affirmatively in a girlish voice but I opted to say nothing. Being accused of looking like a girl was one thing, plausibly sounding like one was another. Growing in confidence he said,

"My girlfriend's in there getting changed. I've got to take her out in half an hour."

That was good enough for these two fine bastions of law and order. They headed back down the stairs, apologising for the inconvenience.
"Sorry to trouble you, sir. This geezer's a bit pissed."

To be entirely accurate, he was pissed and extremely dissatisfied with their investigative prowess. I could hear him shouting on the street level,
"I fuckin' know e's in there. I just seen 'im go in wiv' a key...!"
Politely, they told him to chalk it up to experience and get on his way.

As I opened door, Alan and I both grinned at each other and breathed a collective sigh of relief.
"I tell you what, " he said, "You're the ugliest bird I've ever taken out...!"
"That's not even true, "
I laughed as he suggested we go across the road to the Red Cow for a well earned beer. ''