The Waccy Baccy Boat

I’ve been able to handle myself since the age of sixteen. My dad Joe was the hardest man I’ve ever met and I inherited his right hook.

It served me well and dispatched most unsuspecting fools who weighed me up and thought I’d be a pushover.

My second, third and fourth homes in the late seventies and early eighties were the nightclubs and discos of Teesside. Permanent party time! But it was pretty damn rough.

I would never start a fight. I always tried to walk away or back down, even when I knew I was very likely to knock the other guy senseless with one punch. This strategy gives a bully so much false confidence. His guard drops and when he makes his move the last thing he expects is an all out counter-attack.

Backing down also helps if the police get involved. Any witnesses would say I was the victim and merely defending myself. The truth was that bashing bullies gave me huge satisfaction. I became a well-known face and VIP in that violent nightclub scene.

I have to give credit to my older brother, Jak, for giving me the motivation to learn to street-fight. Plenty of people can swing hard and fast but practice and experience is absolutely paramount. Not just punch and move, but dirty fighting, absorbing punishment, wrestling, disarming or just dodging airborne missiles. Jak gave me years of top-notch, relentless training. Life was an urban jungle survival course.

Jak was three years older than me. My other brother Alan, rest in peace, was three years younger. As a teenager, I can never remember a time when violence wasn’t part of my life. My father never raised a hand to me and I tried never to give him cause. He taught me basic boxing, but it was never enough to see me through the week. We were always cut and bruised but the real damage was psychological.

Most kids looked up to their big brothers. Not us. We hated Jak or Crazy Jak as he became known to all. He was a pure cunt, a tyrant, a dictator who took enormous pleasure from inflicting pain. He believed Alan and I were lower in the pecking order than the family dog.

He was a thief, a terrible bully and the best liar in the world. There are some who have good reason to turn bad, but Jak was just born bad and didn’t give a fuck about it. I don’t think he could live up to dad’s expectations and rebelled against him and everything else. He was angry at everyone even though we had more than most.

We lived in constant fear of him. Violence was his way of life. He’d steal anything we valued, not to sell it, but to hide it to piss us off. We were beaten if we dared to accuse him. His usual perversion was to choke us until we were blue in the face. He’d laugh like a lunatic and then kick us while we were gasping for breath on the floor.

These sessions would always be followed by a demonstration of victory and power. He’d damage our bikes or rip up our homework. If the noise disturbed mother, she’d smack us all. Jak didn’t mind getting a hiding; he enjoyed seeing us get one too, knowing he’d caused it.

A man can’t fight with his head down or his eyes shut and when you’re battered on a regular basis you learn to keep your head and your guard up. It’s better to see it coming. The trick is to think on your feet. It was a big mistake to retaliate or resist; the beatings only got worse. I learned to protect my face and simply absorb the blows elsewhere. That’s when the faking would come in. Crazy Jak wouldn’t stop until he was satisfied we were hurt. The better you faked pain, the less you got. He had a sick, insatiable appetite for dominant cruelty.

Sometimes I’d pretend to be knocked out. He’d still bash me a few times, not to see if I was faking but as punishment for resisting in the first place. Sometimes it was worth taking a couple of punches to the head so he would leave me alone.

It wasn’t that he wanted to knock us out. No way! The fear and suffering in our eyes as we turned blue gave him a buzz. He’d often sit on us trapping our arms so he could slap us while pretending to be a Gestapo interrogator, torturing us like captured spies!

He was sick and made a family life impossible. He’d cause a row just as he went out so that we dreaded him coming in, pissed or not. Mum and dad were out every night, usually late. His face would light up with his mad grin if we were still up when he arrived home. He looked forward to us as his entertainment before bed.

If we didn’t cower as he passed by, we got a backhander. It was fucking tough. If we were enjoying TV, he’d change channels to watch a party political broadcast just to piss us off.

If Alan objected first, he was slapped until I protested. Then I was beaten as he gargled his signature lunatic laugh before going to his room for his disgusting ritual of wanking into a rolled up newspaper.

From thirteen to seventeen, I trained constantly in all styles of fighting, sparring with Alan on a nightly basis. We hated and feared Jak. Life was truly shit. There seemed to be no solution.

I watched Bruce Lee and martial arts movies for inspiration. It was always the same plot: downtrodden, tortured victims learn Kung Fu and kick the evil tyrant’s arse. How sad that my only ambition at school was to beat up my big brother. Until that day came, we were the ‘Resistance’ and plotted against the ‘Gestapo’ in every way possible.

If you’re a bully, think twice about abusing anyone in any way ever again! History proves that no matter how hard you abuse a race or religion, they will eventually revolt.

At the Stockton market pet stall, we spent our pocket money on dog laxative. We laced our own sandwiches with it and left them where we knew the greedy, spiteful cunt would steal them.

Before he went out, Crazy Jak would slap us or damage or steal something to demonstrate his power. Even if he wasn’t hungry, his face would light up as he stuffed the laxative delights in his gob.

He’d gag laughing at how much he was enjoying them. We became good actors, appearing furious that he’d stolen our supper. This saved us from a slapping. Our spirits were raised every time he came home early after shitting himself. Believe me, we’d be belly laughing… sometimes crying with joy! What sweet revenge!

Mother’s sleeping tablets were great for a break. A couple crushed up in his dinner meant he missed his night out and we could watch what we wanted on TV.

Our dog, Jet, looked puzzled when we wiped his arse with Jak’s food. Just another example of a very satisfying pay-back and it only took seconds. It still makes me smile.

We’d get up in the dead of night to flatten his car battery, put water in his fuel, slacken his oil sump plug or let a tyre down. Anything we could do to fuck him up was good, honest payback!

One particularly excellent event concerned the use of a wind-up device known as a ‘mega’ which is used to generate an electrical charge for testing high voltage circuits before connecting them up.

One day we passed two wires through the key hole of the front door and taped the bare ends to the door knob. As he approached the door, we whizzed the handle as fast as hell; the meter approached 600 volts as he grabbed the handle. Boom!

He was thrown five metres back down the path and laid out horizontal. By the time he’d pulled himself together, we’d removed the evidence and left by the back door, pretending to arrive behind him and help him up. He couldn’t remember a thing. We had many a laugh afterwards but didn’t do it again. We thought we’d killed him!

We worked at my father’s aerial business from age eleven. This provided good income for us as kids and we had more disposable pocket money than anyone else at school. I spent a lot of time chopping up old aerials to remove the steel from the aluminium and stripping the copper from the co-axial cable. It was really a man’s job and very hard work, so hard that the others refused to do it, and my hands were always black and rough, but I split the money with dad and made some serious money for my age. It also made me stronger as I got older.

One night when I was sixteen, Jak brought his first girlfriend back to the house. She was a nice quiet girl whose only fault was that she’d picked a fucking nutcase for a bloke. We were sparring Kung Fu and Judo in our bedroom when he sneaked her into his room.

He kicked open our door, knocking Alan over, then lashed out, cutting my lip. Any fucking noise and you both get it, he snarled as he bashed us once more for good measure before going back to his prey, no doubt aroused with victory.

He probably thought his display impressed her but she must have been fucking mortified. I knew by then that Jak had no idea about women. But fucking hell… maybe he needed a power fantasy to get erect!

I hate being smacked in the mouth more than anything. I really fucking hate it! The instant swelling and pain is bad enough, but there’s more to come. You just know you’re going to look like a twat tomorrow and feel it every time you speak.

But there comes a time, a point, an edge, a limit, whatever it was, I had reached it.

I could hear her having a go at him and decided to add fuel to the fire. I must’ve been pumped up after the sparring. Knowing full well I’d get battered, I’d make damn sure he was getting sweet fuck all that night.

I shouted out, What was that for, Snappy? So you can fuck your girlfriend for the first time, Snappy? It was a name we only called him while riding a bike away fast!

She started crying as the monster in her boyfriend awoke! When Snappy lost it, he sounded like a cow with its head stuck in a gate. The door burst open. Oh my God! His face was contorted worse than I’d ever seen. He knocked over Alan, wrestled me onto my bed and tried to strangle me; he was slavering and spitting obscenities like a demented gargoyle in a horror movie.

I was used to being choked… it happened quite often. I’d developed strong neck muscles and a technique to tolerate it quite well. In the past, it had been futile to fight back, I just had to grin and bear it until he’d had his jollies and was satisfied. I don’t know what the perversion was or how it worked, only that he liked to do it.

But this time he’d really lost it! Alan could see he was trying to kill me but was paralysed with fear and could only scream. Spurred on, the pervert tried to apply more pressure. I thought, fuck the consequences, faking near-death hadn’t worked. I was well out of oxygen and more than a little worried.

I brought my knee up into his bollocks so hard I hit bone; I knew I’d rung the bell. His evil fucking eyes nearly popped out and every ounce of breath left his lungs as he fell off the bed. Before he could get his head together, I smashed his jaw with a haymaker of a right hook and knocked him out stone fucking cold! Thanks, dad!

I looked at Alan who instead of being relieved was petrified. And so was I.

This was the scenario we were always afraid of; it’s why most serial abusers get away with it for so long. Anyway… fuck it! It was done. We ran for our lives.

The house had solid doors and we locked ourselves in the bathroom. The plan was to stay there until our parents came home from the famous nightclub Club Fiesta, ten minutes walk away. There was no joy at knocking him out, just raw fear!

The groaning started after about ten minutes. It progressed into high-pitched whines as he slammed doors. She began crying as furniture was being thrown around. The worst kind of wailing, screeching lunatic was rampant in our house shouting, I’m gonna kill ya! I’m gonna kill ya.

When he found the bathroom door locked, he kicked and charged at it with such force, the frames shuddered and plaster fell to the floor. He was obviously hurting himself. There was no way out of the window so we shouldered the door to take some of the strain.

We heard a sick laugh and the words, Tooth pick, tooth pick, tooth pick, as he ran back to his room, returning with one of his favourite possessions, his Tennessee Toothpick, a razor sharp, ten inch Bowie knife he’d often used to threatened us.

Within minutes, he’d driven the point through the solid wood panel. He was hacking at it like he was trying to escape from a locked coffin.

We knew we were in trouble. Alan began to cry. He was only thirteen. I had to accept we’d passed the point of no return. We were in real danger of being hacked to death. I could see the blade twisting, splitting bigger and bigger chunks from the panel. He was almost through! He began grunting and hacking in rhythm and I sussed he was trying to get his breath back before he got the door open. It wasn’t blind rage anymore; he was focused, with a deadly purpose!

I decided to make the first move to catch him off-guard. After pushing my brother clear, I undid the bolt. As the blade came through, I pulled the door open with the blade jammed in the panel. He kept hold of the knife, bounced off the wall and ran straight into a perfect punch. Thanks again, dad!

He went down like the sack of shit he was, smashing his head on the bath taps. I pulled the knife from the door and ran with Alan to the pantry which had a much stronger door. Yes, we had the knife, but I wouldn’t dream of using it.

After another ten minutes of frozen fear, the demented wailing started again. We both knew he couldn’t break this door down and we had his knife. So he went on a rampage of revenge. I’m sawing your fucking motorbike up now I’ve finished cutting up your clothes, he screamed.

By now I really, really did feel like Superman! The first knockout could have been lucky but the second one was confidence on a stick! It felt so fucking good, I wanted more. And if he wanted it, he was going to fucking get it. Now was my time and I knew it! Carry on, you fucking arsehole! Carry on! I shouted.

I sent Alan in his slippers to get our parents from the nightclub while the lunatic was trying to hacksaw my motorbike in half. A crazed glaze had taken over his battered face as blood flowed freely from his nose and open mouth. He was so far gone he didn’t even see me coming. As he looked up, I smashed his nose with my open palm and it exploded! What a fucking shot! I’d read how effective this was but never used it in anger.

I didn’t want to knock him out. This time I didn’t want to get away. I wanted to fight with Crazy Jak, our tormentor and torturer. I buzzed, full of adrenaline as I hit him again and every time he lunged, he got another and another. I easily dodged and blocked his dozy efforts as I backed up the stairs. Like a crazy zombie, he kept coming; blood was splashing from his face over the carpets and walls so I began snap kicking him. I wanted his whole body to know what pain really was!

Time after time, he kept getting up, coming forward on autopilot. Stupid, stupid cunt! I was King Fucking Kong of the Castle for fifteen minutes, just knocking fuck out of him. It was a night I’ll never forget. He was confused and battered. I could see the shock and disbelief in his eyes as she screamed for him to stop.

If it had been a cage fight, the referee would’ve stopped it in two minutes. But this was no cage fight. As far as I was concerned, this was a fight to the death, revenge for years of systematic perverted abuse. This was my night! My miserable fucking life changed forever at that point… yes, right at that very point! The buzz was absolutely fantastic, better than anything I had imagined. My prayers and hard graft had paid off. Bruce Lee? Who the fuck was Bruce Lee?

Dad came up the stairs first. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Big Bad Crazy Jak looked like he’d been hit by a train. My old man knew Jak was a bully but my mother’s health after a battle with cancer was his priority and to be fair, no one would’ve believed half of what he did to us. Dad expected to find me marmalised; it was unprecedented to pull him out of a club.

His shock at the sight of broken Jak turned to pride as he realised, I had become a man.

Jak’s life also changed that night. His reign of terror was over. He would always have to live with the fact he’d been butchered by his little brother! In fact, when the doctor and ambulance came, they had to inject the daft cunt with a ‘liquid cosh’ to knock him out. Seemed like a waste of time and drugs. I would’ve saved them a job.

I would call his attack that night attempted murder. He should have gone to jail or a mental hospital at least. He couldn’t look me in the face after that. He soon set up home with his girl, who deserved a medal as big as a dustbin lid for marrying him. But she did! He got a proper job; it was her condition of them staying together and she did her best to change him.

He’d been so out of control, he’d stay on the bus a mile past his stop just to annoy the conductor and see if he could get thrown off. He’d swim in the middle of the public pool after closing until five staff were in the water trying to catch him. It always ended in a fight and he loved it. Getting a smack was no problem; he wanted to show them that it made no difference. He knew they weren’t going to badly hurt him and pushed them to the limit. Just for fun!

My life certainly changed. I no longer lived in fear but never bullied him back, despite years of suffering at his perverted whims. Snappy was considered a bit handy in the past, but now I knew I was better.

He was evil and should have had help. But the years of abuse and relentless training taught me to fight better than I could know. My late brother Alan’s life also became considerably better. It was a good result and well worth the time.

Jak still stole from me but like any magpie, it was only a matter of finding his nest and I wasn’t frightened to raid it. He stole only expensive stuff. His workmates fixed cars on night shift and had well-stocked toolboxes.

Jak also had good tools… mine! Even though they were painted green and were engraved with ‘Phil’, it made no difference. He still stole them from my mobile workshop van. I never had tools stolen by anyone else; it was always Jak, even though he didn’t know how to use them properly.

I had to steal them back when it got too much. Then he had the fucking cheek to kick off. I could never understand mother taking his side. He would leave his stupid boy- racer Vauxhall Viva outside the family house or nightclub; I copied his keys whenever I could and would rifle his hiding places to take back only what was mine.

It drove him nuts, absolutely barmy, but what choice did I have? It was an illness; just another part of his twisted mind. The hardest part for him was that he knew I wasn’t afraid of him. I’d just say, Don’t steal them and I won’t have to steal them back, will I? Dickhead.

He hated me with a passion after his attempt to kill me. He festered like a Christmas Island nuclear test volunteer with his dick burnt off. He double-padlocked everything and walked about with a bunch of keys big enough to cause a limp. One day, I thought he was out in Dad’s van and I found them in his coat, unlocked his car boot and found an Aladdin’s Cave.

Tools and equipment I’d long since written off were packed into cardboard boxes. He must have been in the process of moving them from his secret stash to sell them. I couldn’t believe my luck.

The stolen booty would have justified a burning torch to open the boot. I thought mother was joking when I heard her shouting, Jak. Get up. Our Philip’s in your car. But it was no joke. Jak was in a spare bed after being out late and sleeping it off, rather than let his missus see how drunk he’d been.

I’d just finished recovering hundreds of pounds worth of my property including a battery charger, drills, grinders and even a new welding torch when he charged out of the house, full of fuck and badly hung over.

What the fuck are you doing in my car? he said.

I just laughed at him, pointing to the pile of tools on the floor. I’m having a fucking birthday by the looks of things, you thieving bastard!

He flew at me, flinging his arms about like a jam-covered girl in a swarm of wasps. This was uncontrollable rage as he ran straight into my trusty old right hook. BOOOM!

He was out cold, legs gone. I looked up at mother and said, Well done, Mama. Nice one. I picked up my gear and went inside. The kitchen was being refitted, there were only floorboards. I knew it wasn’t over but I wanted to make it clear that I at least was happy to leave it. I began to clean my tools but something made me hang on to a medium sized monkey wrench.

Crazy Jak rose again that day and kicked through the door, clutching a claw hammer. I stayed calm, crouched down on the floor, holding my wrench. He came thundering at me, tears rolling down his swollen, contorted face. He swung the sharp claws of the hammer deep into the side of my skull. I fell back as blood and brain fluid splattered the walls and floor. I thought I had little chance of seeing tomorrow!

Actually, that’s what would have happened if I hadn’t been on the ball and ducked! In reality, I swung the wrench and knocked him and half a dozen of his teeth out. Jak was unconscious, blood pouring from his mouth.

I looked at my horrified mother and said, Happy now? I picked up my tools and left.

I don’t know why he was never locked up or sectioned. It never crossed my mind to call the police.

Jak has hardly bothered with me since and hates me. He’s never apologised to the victims of his terrible, relentless, physical and psychological abuse. He continues to slag me off behind my back, but everyone knows he’s a lying tosser.

The only thing my Big Brother did for me, was teach me to fight! Thanks, Jak.

Chapter Two

SHINING BUTTONS, THE BULLY BOBBY

It was an early evening in 1975 and there were four of us in the car… an almost new BMW 2500 which belonged to my mate Nik’s father. Even though we were only eighteen, we’d persuaded him to lend it to us on pain of death if anything happened to it. We were out for the night with our fiancées, Jan and Debbie; we thought we were the bee’s knees. We’d all been in the same class at school and Jan was my first and only girlfriend.

We were in Wellington Street in my hometown of Stockton-on-Tees. Nik was driving like an old woman, petrified of his father Mirek, of Eastern European descent; he was good to us, but a cantankerous bloke at the best of times.

It all turned to shit as a battered Marina van smashed into us from behind. Nik stopped the car and looked around absolutely horrified. The state of the scrap heap behind us made matters worse… we just knew the driver wouldn’t be insured.

Before the crash, I would have valued the van at £20; it shouldn’t have been on the road. We were just about to get out when the cheeky bastard drove off. Nik floored the auto BMW and we cut him off in seconds. Nik was chuffed until he saw the van drive straight at us, smashing into the nearside of the car and then reversing for another go.

I jumped from the car as the van hit the BMW a third time. I pulled open the driver’s door to find a proper scallywag. The smell of whisky hit me. He was paralytic. The foot-well of the van was awash as at least three bottles of the stuff had smashed. Cameras and other valuables were also strewn about. He’d just been released from jail and had stolen everything, including the van.

I pulled out the keys. I never had time to think of any danger; the thought of this guy getting away and leaving us to explain the three separate impacts to Nik’s father was just too much to contemplate.

As he climbed out, he held a broken bottle by the neck. As he swung it at me, I simply side stepped; he was an easy target and as he swung the bottle again, I smacked him bang on the jaw with my father’s legacy, the good old right hook. He collapsed and was out cold. The police station was only two minutes away so Nik shot off on foot, keen to leave everything as it was to avoid any misunderstanding.

He returned a few minutes later with a young bobby who’d already been told the guts of what had happened. He was a big bloke, well-built with a hard, common face. I’d never seen uniform buttons so bright. He looked stressed and a bit menacing but hell, we were the good guys.

He cuffed the still unconscious scallywag, hands behind his back and sat on his chest while he radioed for transport. The prisoner began to wake up, mumbling about this fourteen stone copper on his chest. It was a big mistake; a sickening smash to the face from the copper’s fist put him straight back to sleep.

The girls were horrified and almost wretched. They were really sweet and had never seen the likes of it. I looked at this copper with disgust; I’d never hit a man who didn’t deserve it and certainly not one who couldn’t defend himself. I shouted at him to stop, but he just glared at me and banged the driver’s head on the pavement.

The scumbag started to wake up again and swore at the copper who was still sitting on him. Shining Buttons pulled his fist right back and smashed it into his victim’s face; he was snarling like a thug. Blood sprayed onto the pavement; I thought he was dead until I saw his feet twitching.

Jan and Debbie screamed, holding on to each other. It was fucking horrific. I’d had enough; I’d suffered too much at the hands of my bully brother to watch anymore. I went over and pushed Shining Buttons off him and said, For fuck’s sake, mate… he’s out cold; he’s going nowhere, leave him alone.

He looked up still snarling and spitting. Fuck off, son, or you’ll spend a night in the cells with him! He was out of control and clearly getting the same kick Jak did when he tortured us. I took him at his word and fucked off. I’d never had trouble with the law and didn’t want to start.

A few weeks later, I was driving my Lotus Cortina along nearby Bishopton Road when a police panda with blue flashing lights came up behind. I stopped and who walks up to the car? Yep, Shining Buttons.

I wound down the window and said, What’s the problem officer? He was half smiling; I wondered if it was the same copper.

It’s okay, he said, you’ve done nothing wrong. But you know the other week? Well, the bloke has made a complaint against me because his cheekbones and eye socket are broken. (No fucking surprise there then.) I need you to make a statement saying that he attacked you more than once and that you did the damage. I’ll back you up.

I couldn’t believe my ears. I was furious. I’d never hit anybody on the floor, never mind in handcuffs. The next thing I said was to have a massive impact on the rest of my life; that’s why I remember it, word for word.

Listen, mate, I said, what you did was disgraceful, you’d better leave me out of this or I’ll tell them exactly what you did and what you said when I tried to stop you.

His face changed back to the one I recognised; he glared at me like I was shit. That’s all I wanted to know, bye. And off he went.

But, he would return to haunt me; he’d already taken the time to find out I was driving a Lotus Cortina!

A few weeks later I’d been to the Incognito Nightclub and as I left, I discovered my other car, a Triumph convertible, had been stolen. I reported it from a payphone. The police didn’t know my location but strangely told me, it’d been found only five hundred yards away in a side street.

I found the undamaged car and everything seemed to be okay. I checked the glove box for my chequebook. It was still there, so I assumed the Triumph had been taken as a joke by someone I knew. In those days almost any key would work on a worn lock. I drove home relieved.

A week later I called at my parent’s home with my old school pal, Wayne Wrangham. My mother told me the police had been and asked if I could go to the station as soon as possible. I was interested, not worried; I’d done nothing wrong.

We hot-footed it straight to the cop shop and walked into reception at about 11.15pm. Shining Buttons and a charge sergeant called Horlicks immediately grabbed me by the arms and said, Philip Berriman, I am arresting you on suspicion of theft of an excise licence.

I was stunned. An excise licence, what the fuck is an excise licence?

They grinned. A tax disc you’ve stolen.

I’ll give you one guess who’d found my car even before it was reported stolen. Yes, Shining Buttons. What a fucking coincidence. He’d been in the glove box and found a tax disc belonging to a Cortina which I was selling. It was parked in Wolsey’s Coaches garage, owned by my father’s friend, Brian. I’d taken the disc out for safekeeping. I’d stolen nothing!

When I told Shining Buttons and his diligent sergeant, they seemed none too pleased but dispatched a plod to my parents’ house, where I told them they would find the documents. Meanwhile, I was pushed about and thrown into a cell by three scowling coppers. I actually thought it was funny. How pathetic was Shining Buttons to go to all that trouble, the sad bastard!

Around midnight, I was led into the charge room still chuckling to myself; the plod had returned with the documents.

I’ll be going then, lads, if you don’t mind? I said.

Shining Buttons’ face was as red as beetroot. I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel. You’re going fucking nowhere until I get you for something. Get him back in that cell!

I was bundled into the cell again and left for an hour before being taken back into the charge room and questioned in relation to a very heinous crime. They actually suspected me of: At a time and place unknown, driving a car without MOT and road tax.

I was in and out of my cell until 4.30am when I again found myself in the charge room in my stocking feet with Shining Buttons, Sergeant Horlicks, another sergeant and a plod. I was pretty pissed off; they’d tried all night to intimidate me but I’d done nothing wrong and I was in a police station… what could they do? I was blissfully unaware of the scandalous numbers of deaths in custody in the Seventies.

I got cocky and brazen, wanting to wind them up. To all the stupid questions about cars, I replied, On a trailer, or I’m not telling you. So it went on until I decided to give a little back. I said there’d been £8 cash in the glove box and accused Shining Buttons of stealing it.

I grinned, but he exploded and lashed out with his fist, belting my face. I took the blow well and, still believing in the Great British Bobby, I turned to Sgt Horlicks saying I wanted to make a complaint of assault.

Oh, do you now? he said as I was grabbed by each arm so that Shining Buttons had an easy target. I couldn’t believe it; I was trying to get my head round it when I heard some commotion outside the door.

Shining Buttons launched at me, slamming punches into my abdomen as his face contorted; clearly he wanted to hurt me, but not mark me too much. I was as fit as a fiddle; six foot and toned. I could lift the engine out of a Ford Cortina without a block and tackle so I wasn’t about to collapse in a heap; I’d just be very sore in the morning. As I took more blows, I could hear my father shouting and balling on the other side of the door.

My pal Wayne had told him the story and after getting the run-around at the desk, he’d persuaded an inspector from nearby Middlesbrough to come down. He could hear what was happening and like the sort of guy he was, he was kicking off, but they wouldn’t let him in.

Meanwhile, inside, as the Gestapo sickos were busy administering their ‘punishment beating’, I had my own problems. I knew I was going to be beaten up whatever I did or said and fuelled by the noise of my Pa fighting, I flipped; I was going to seriously hurt Shining Buttons… I simply had no control.

I was, and still am, scarred by my bully brother. I fucking hate bullies!

Bullies are cowards; they only do it when there’s no danger to them. The last thing they expected with four against one was a fight. I knew I wasn’t going to win and escape! I admit it! I badly wanted to hurt him, copper or no copper; he was a legitimate target; a bully cunt! The pain I was in only multiplied the rage and doubled the strength. He was very, very lucky there were four of them!

I planned my sequence perfectly and nutted the plod on my left arm square on the nose. As the blood sprayed, he fell against the wall… not unconscious but with a look of absolute horror in his eyes. My left arm was now free. I drove my open palm up into Horlicks’ nose, hearing it crack before he hit the deck. I was already focused on my real target!

Before he could believe what was happening, I connected a furious right hook with his jaw. He fell down but not out by any means; I have to admit, I was surprised he took it. As he scrambled about on all fours trying to get up, I snap kicked his arm and broke it.

As he was writhing in pain, I was hit hard by a baton on the back of the head, probably by the fourth hero I hadn’t bashed. I felt my scalp parting as I grabbed a heavy metal telephone system from the desk and brought it down on Shining Buttons’ head. I fell on him following another blow.

Two batons rained down in turns as I did my best to destroy his face. I knew I couldn’t take much more but dodged the next blow which hit him in the face. Fucking good shot! I thought, as I blacked out.

I came round in my cell to find the inspector from Middlesbrough standing over me. I could hardly comprehend what he was saying as I became aware of more and more injuries about my head and body. They’d carried on braying me long after I’d passed out. There were lumps in places they couldn’t have even seen during the fracas. They must’ve turned me over and danced on me, the horrible vile, cowardly cunts!

Perhaps they let Shining Buttons exact his revenge without witnesses. The inspector went ballistic when he saw me. He promised there’d be