The Firm - II - The Wild One (1959 Version)

II

The Wild One (1959 Version)

Looking back, it was really the one incident that started it all off, on a freezing cold night outside a pub just off Commercial Road back in ‘59. I was chaining a cheap pack of foreign fags, wearing a shitty brown leather jacket while trying to be London’s answer to Marlon Brando and, in all honesty, I looked like a fucking prat.

            I don’t know whether I exactly regret what occurred that night. I suppose the outcome could have been different with the benefit of hindsight an’ all had I done a few things different, but really, they deserved what they got.

            You see, there was nothing dodgy about my upbringing, I was a normal healthy boy, my parents were upstanding members of society and all that bollocks, I worked hard at school and believe me when I say, I was good and at sums in particular. So no matter how much the papers try to bash it – it’s lies – I was never a sandwich short of the picnic.

            But as I was saying, I ducked into this pub rather urgent and Connor was in there waiting for me. Connor was my mate, like my brother really, I’m the brains and he was the brawn of the organisation. He had a temper. Fuck me he had a temper. But he was fucking hysterical too. He was half-Paddy, he smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish and swore like a trooper but he stood by me through thick and thin when we were young, and he did so that night.

             We were on the tables in, the pub I think was, the Rose and Crown, which was packed to the rafters with punters. There were these two lads, about our age, one being Harold Raft which I didn’t know at the time, drunk and mouthing off. I wasn’t cocky, I was quite quiet unless the company I kept was three or four birds, but I didn’t stand for it. They were pissed. Proper pissed. When the barmaid slid another two ales Raft knocked it flying and went la-la at the poor girl. I could never stand men like that. I budged myself in between him, apologised for shouldering him, and ordered a pint. I said something like “alright lads?” and they replied by slurring “fuck off”. I shrugged my shoulders, paid for my drink, and smashed Raft in the face with the glass. It splintered and Connor smashed the other guy round the face with a bar stool. I grabbed Harold’s head and cracked it three times against the bar, about two of his teeth popped out, then I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged his lanky arse out into the street. I flung three hooks and change at him, deflected one of his crosses and served him an uppercut, knocking him flat on his arse and into a puddle.

            I went a bit medieval on his arse, that I’ll admit, in a fit of rage I dragged him by his head to the curb, opened his mouth on the corner and stamped on his skull. To be honest, I’m amazed he didn’t kick the bucket.

            Connor followed me out, holding half a pool cue and the guy’s bloodied-up tie. We scarpered, legged it to a pub in Mile End, stayed for a few, then caught a bus back to the Spurs. If anything we were more pissed off that Con had got blood on his cream zip jacket, that his mother had bought him for his birthday, than anything else. Little did we know our actions had warranted such a wake-up call from one of the biggest names in Tottenham. Forget Ron Burgess and John White we’re talking about Alan Doonican an’ all.