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Contents Foreword ................................................................................... i Army Basic Training ................................................................ 1 The British Army ..................................................................... 6 Armagh, Northern Ireland ...................................................... 10 Murder In The Barracks.Buller Barracks, Munster, Germany. ................................................................................ 16 Mind The Minefield ............................................................... 26 Argentine Ammunition Dump ............................................... 34 The Ear ................................................................................... 42 Gunned Down On A Sunday Morning................................... 59 John, Dave & Me ................................................................... 69 Sam ........................................................................................ 80 Four Seasons Bingo Hall........................................................ 87 Abbey National Building Society .......................................... 91 Mod Guard Service (MGS) .................................................... 99 Ken Brandy .......................................................................... 114 Accused Of Rape ................................................................. 131 Shot At Again....................................................................... 151 Raffles Club ......................................................................... 158 A Murder In Folkestone ....................................................... 168 John Lowe MBE .................................................................. 171 Albie’s Nightclub: Vinnie Jones, John Lowe & Ross Kemp .................................................................................... 182 Broken Fingers ..................................................................... 196
Washer-Dryers ..................................................................... 200 Iraq Shootings ...................................................................... 203 Epilogue ............................................................................... 207 Afterword ............................................................................. 210
t was 1967, I was seven years old, Sandy Shaw won the Eurovision Song Contest with Puppet on a String and my mum IRita had run off with another man, leaving my dad on his own to cope with me, my six-year-old brother John and four-yearold sister Kathy. Just like that, we suddenly became a singleparent family.
John, Kathy, and Me Dad did his best to keep heart and soul together, even though the authorities tried to place us with foster parents, claiming that a single parent, especially a man, could not properly bring up three kids of such a young age, yet he was to prove them wrong. Under Dad’s care we stuck together as a family, through some very hard, but nonetheless very good times, until John joined the RAF at the age of 16 and a half. He was the youngest recruit i
in the RAF at the time, and it wasn’t long before I followed in his footsteps, joining the army at the age of 18. The 1st Battalion of the Royal Hampshire Regiment, nicknamed The Tigers, soon became my second family. Staying in Her Majesty’s service until 1983, I was able to travel to many countries around the world: Portugal, Sierra Leone, Germany and many others. I completed two tours of Northern Ireland and one of the Falkland Islands, where I was on protection detail for the prime minister at that time, Margaret Thatcher. Shortly after the Falklands tour, seven of us were kicked out (ironically!) for fighting. Having to leave my army family in Dover was devastating, and led me into a crazy life of pubs, clubs and raves, from marriage to divorce, to drug running, extortion, armed robbery, murders, police detention and subsequent jailtime. I was stabbed, shot, and spent time in hospital. I then regained sanity and got back onto the straight and narrow. After becoming a bodyguard, I was able to work on various missions in Afghanistan and Iraq. Then I got into maritime security, working on luxury yachts, fishing trawlers, ferries, and Royal Fleet Auxiliary ships, travelling to both Arctic and Antarctic regions with the British Antarctic Survey Team. During this time I looked after the rich and famous, worldwide. But there is so much more to my story! There have been many highs and lows throughout my colourful life, during which, as you will later see, I didn’t always choose what you might exactly call the most sensible path. At the grand old age of 59 I woke up in a London hospital after a 10-and-a-half-hour operation. The last time I’d woken up in a hospital after surgery was after being gunned down on the ii
streets of Dover at 3am one Sunday morning with my good friend Greg by, as it turned out, drug runners from the north of England. But that’s another story for later in the book. A few days earlier, prior to my operation, the ship I was on had set sail from Norway, heading for the Arctic circle. I was working as a steward for the British Antarctic Survey on one of their ships called The James Clark Ross. We were only 24 hours into a scientific cruise to the Arctic when the captain received a call from the hospital. After discussing my situation with them, the doctor on board and of course “BASMU” (The British Antarctic Survey Medical Unit) back in the UK, it was decided to send a fast cutter out from Norway to meet the ship which had by then begun to head back towards our departure point, and get me flown back to the UK as soon as possible. Waking up in hospital got me thinking about my life up to that moment. Many people had said I should write about my incredible life, and right there and then I decided to finally put pen to paper. I invite you to sit back, relax and enjoy the ride, but get ready for a few bumps, as even I can hardly believe what I’ve been through, nor fathom how it’s even possible for me to still be alive. From suddenly finding myself in a single parent family, to being placed in childrens’ homes and borstals, to being an apprentice car paint sprayer before joining the British Army (can you believe it, six years in the army, two tours of Northern Ireland, one tour of the Falklands and after all that, getting kicked out for fighting?), the merchant navy, including the MOD Royal Fleet Auxiliary (kicked out again), train driver on the building of the channel tunnel (sacked for a major derailment), Kent boxing champion, lifeguard, Ministry of iii
Defence guard service (suspended, sacked and taken to crown court by them), close protection officer/bodyguard working for the rich and famous, from Afghanistan to Iraq, to the Indian Ocean (armed antipiracy), catwalks to film premieres, to being accused, innocently, of a crime against a so-called friend of mine in Dover, which nearly led me to being assassinated by a hit team from London when a price was put on my head by a family that couldn’t accept the truth. Yes, this is my story. You’ll read of my brushes with murderers, armed bank robberies, shootings, stabbings, “enforcement” jobs, drugs, fights, prison spells, marriage (and divorce), the highs and lows of clubs, nightclub “bouncing”, raves, festivals, and more. You may doubt some of it, but please believe me, it all really happened, just as I recount it, along with so much more that I am reluctant to tell. At least, for the time being. My journey into the world started on Sunday, 17th January, 1960. Dwight D. Eisenhower was the U.S. president, Harold Macmillan was the British prime minister and Pope John XXII was leading the Catholic church. But that was of course of little consequence to me at the time. I was the second son born to our mother Rita, but the first son born to my father, Peter Samuel Winton. Dad had married Rita, who already had a son, incidentally also called Peter. I am, from this moment on, going to call my mum Rita and that is for reasons that will become apparent later. So, on the 17th of January 1960, Dad, Rita, Peter and I, Brian George John Winton, became a family unit. We expanded shortly afterwards with the birth of my little brother, John Samuel Winton, and my sister, Kathleen Beatrice Winton (Kathy). Dad had nicknames for us three kids; I was called iv
“Piggy”, John was “Dogsbody” and Kathy was “Bitch”. Exactly why Dad called us these names we were never sure of, but I do recall that our step brother Peter never had a nickname. Dad was a merchant seaman and Rita, as was usual in those days, a stay-at-home mum. Dad’s story I believe to be far more interesting than mine. He was a merchant seaman by the age of 16 and during the Second World War served on the Atlantic Convoys. Dad was docked in Montevideo, Uruguay on VE day, May 8th, 1945 where the crew were giving a Ships Revue show at the city’s Victoria Hall Theatre. The Ship was the MV Norman Star and the crew called themselves The Normaniacs. Mid-concert came news that victory in Europe had been declared, and until the day my father passed away, he always professed that being on that stage, at the very moment VE day was declared, his crew’s concert constituted the very first VE day party. On 8th May, 2017 - 62 years later, I was in Montevideo on a ship, and visited the same theatre that dad had been in. A local newspaper heard about my father on stage and me being there 62 years later so came on board to do a story about Dad and I. Later on, in December 2018 my brother John also found himself in Montevideo and had his photo taken on the same stage as Dad. John donned a ballerina’s tutu, just as Dad had worn during his performance as “Winnie the Locust”. Following the war Dad was still very young, and kept on working in the merchant navy. In 1948, aged 21, Dad got involved with helping displaced people in Europe - many from the German death camps - find their way to what was then Palestine. His stories were amazing and very poignant. Dad, and others, stole trucks and ferried people to French ports, v
before sailing with them (the whole thing being entirely illegal) to Palestine. All this in the face of opposition from the Royal Navy. The ship he was on became famous; it was called the Pan York. Dad was always wanting to help the underdog. Coincidentally, during the Second World War there was a littleknown gentleman with whom we shared the same surname; Nicholas George Winton, who was regarded as the British “Shindler”, after Oscar Shindler, who was made famous through Steven Spielberg’s film Schindler's List. He organised the escape and rescue of 669 children from Nazi Germany and was later recognised with a knighthood from the queen, as well as an MBE. Somewhere along the line, with the shared surname, there must be a connection. Upon his arrival in Palestine, Dad joined the Haganah, and helped fight for Israel's independence, which was finally gained in May 1948. It's an amazing story. Following even more sea voyages, he jumped ship in Tasmania and joined the Australian army for 4 years. After leaving the Australian army he returned to sea and again jumped ship at Baltimore, USA, where he attempted to join the US Army. Could it be that Dad just loved a uniform? This move however backfired, as his attempt to become GI Joe was during the infamous McCarthyism period of 1950-54, when communism was greatly feared, and considered a threat to the American way of life. The authorities arrested my father and imprisoned him in the Baltimore jailhouse whilst his credentials were looked into. After ten weeks they deported the old man, even though they accepted he was neither a communist, nor a threat to America.
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My late father in Haganah uniform in Israel. One of the many he wore during his lifetime. vii
From what I remember, family life started in Hythe, a small coastal town in Hampshire. Dad had an old police car, a Wolsey 4/44, long and sleek with a leather and wood interior which on a hot day had this fantastic smell and, if I try hard enough, I can still recall it. Dad and Rita were always taking us out on rides at weekends, Saturdays mostly, sometimes down to the beaches. There were two in Hythe: Calshot and Lepe; one was a stony beach, the other a sandy one but I’m not sure which one was which. If the beaches were not visited then we would all head over to the Chichester and Worthing areas of Sussex to meet Dads’ brothers and sisters, our cousins, and to visit our nan, Rita’s mum. These were what seemed like good times to us and we were all a family unit. I thought our family was great; everyone got on, and to me it seemed a very stable life, Dad working and Rita doing her bit to keep the house in order and us all fed. It’s weird what you recall; we used to rush out to see Dad come home from work and our burning question was “Any sandwiches left, Dad?”. There would always be something that Dad would save for us to share when he got home; it never dawned on us that this was his lunch and he went without just to see our faces when he handed us the odd sandwich. Then again, maybe Rita made extra just for us; we never knew nor cared. Us kids would attend Sunday school; sometimes Dad would take and pick us up, other times people from the school would pick us up; we liked Sunday school even if we were not religious kids. November 6th, 1967. Remember me saying that I thought we had a stable family? I bet our dad did, too! Dad was at work that day at the Esso oil refinery in Hythe when he got a phone call viii
from our uncle Ron, Rita’s brother. He told Dad that Rita was leaving him for another man called Alan, they were at the house loading the car with clothes, toys etc. and that Rita was leaving with Alan, our step-brother Peter and sister Kathy before he got home. Dad left work straight away and got home just as Rita and Alan were loading the car, with Peter and Kathy already in the back. Dad was later to tell us that uncle Ron went to hit Rita, but Dad held him back and said “No, it’s not just her, it takes two”, so uncle Ron backed off. I don’t think any violence ensued that evening but Dad was to recall to us that he told them to go but there was no way that they were going to take Kathy with them, so Kathy was retrieved from the car along with her possessions and taken back to bed, then Alan, Rita and Peter left for good. John and I, to our knowledge, knew nothing of this as we were asleep in bed. That was the last time I saw Peter until Rita’s funeral many years later, and as for Rita, I didn’t see her again until the day I completed my basic training into the British Army. Prior to my joining the army in 1978, our single parent family had to move on, now that it was just Dad, John, Kathy and I. We moved from Hythe to Bishopstoke near Eastleigh, Dad had got a job as school caretaker and we lived in School House on Church Road, which came with the job. I’m not sure how long we lived there but we later moved to 67 High Street, in Eastleigh. Dad got a job as a caretaker of two blocks of flats down at Cranberry and Blenheim Road, also becoming a member of Gingerbread, which is a single parent organisation, of which Dad and a few others were founder members of the Southampton Gingerbread Group. Dad had acquired an old ix
minibus for the group and became the official driver of the distinctive, orange coloured van. Dad wrote to a certain Southampton resident to ask if he would become an honorary member of the Gingerbread Group as he was a single man, and although he had no family himself, he said he would deem it an honour to become a member, and so the late, and dearly loved comedian Benny Hill became a member of the Southampton Gingerbread Group! John and I knocked around with two brothers called Dave and Bob Burt during our education at both the Chamberlayne Road and Alderman Quilley Schools. John and myself were bullied constantly at school and you could guarantee that at least once a week one of us would get beaten up. My school days were unfortunately cut short, due to my unruly behaviour. Although a choirboy at the local Salvation Army Hall, I was also running around with a gang and we would skip school, shoplift, steal bikes, do petty break ins and thefts whenever we could. All of this inevitably led to police action, court cases and probation, which would then see me ending up in childrens’ homes and borstal. Dave Burt was in my year at school and Bob was in John’s year. Dave and Bob both went on to serve with me in the Royal Hampshire Regiment. Growing up, times were very hard, money was scarce, Dad was a single parent and we were from a broken family; it sounds shit, doesn’t it? But I tell you what, although we had some tough, depressing and desperate times, I wouldn’t change one single day. Dad always had our backs throughout the rest of his life, and all those that knew him regarded him as a great father and a top bloke.
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I told a lie there, in fact I would change something! I’d change the way that I acted and played up, the way I turned to petty crime with my so-called friends. When the police came around, Dad would argue my case but I was always at fault, so these police visits, followed by Dad’s visits to the police station to “bail me out” inevitably led to fines, probation, magistrates’ court, one last hearing and, finally, being taken away from my brother, sister and dad, in order to be placed into the care of Hampshire County Council. I was sent to a childrens’ home called Ashbourne Lodge in Winchester, followed by more homes and borstal for a couple of years. I broke my dad’s heart that day. I don’t think I saw him cry, but inside he must have been breaking up because he alone had held our family together, in spite of all the odds and opposition against him, and I’d let him down. Yes, I was a grade A wanker! Not a day in what remained of my father’s life did I fail to regret how badly I’d let down my brother, sister and, most of all, my dad. No one can ever turn back the clock, that’s just in the movies, but I hope that I made up for it in later life by joining the army. The day I passed off the square, in my uniform, Dad was there, and one proud father he was. Yes! At 18, I’d finally made my dad proud.
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n 1978 I arrived at Whittington barracks (Lichfield, near Birmingham) for my basic army training and was put in MONS platoon. I was there with about 40 other guys which, by the time we passed out three months later, would be whittled down to 28. My platoon commander was Lt. Paul Newton, who came from Southampton, and during training he would offer me lifts in his car back to Hampshire on the weekends that I was off. He drove a Triumph Spitfire, or a sports car of that sort. Lt. Newton went on to great things within the army and I last bumped into him at a regimental parade to celebrate the 250-year anniversary of one of our regiment’s battle honours. Minden Day is honoured on August 1st every year, with the regiment’s soldiers all wearing a red rose behind their cap badge. It is in fact the celebration of the wearing of Minden Roses. This recalls that the regiment's soldiers wore wild roses at the 1759 battle of Minden, ones that they had plucked from the hedgerows as they advanced to engage the enemy. I heard Lt. Newton before I saw him; he was surrounded by a group of high-ranking officers, and all I had heard was “Winnie!”. I turned and he had his hand out to greet me; I said “Hello, Lt. Newton”, he said “A bit more than that now, Winnie”, and whilst looking at him I saw the look of disdain on the faces of his fellow officers, because I’d addressed him as a mere lieutenant. I could see that he’d risen in rank and now went under the title of Lieutenant General Sir Paul Raymond Newton KBE, so technically he was still a lieutenant, just that I had dared to omit a few of the other words. We had a short chat to
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catch up on old times, and it was short because he was ushered away to chat to others within the tented area. Basic training was hard and disciplined, but not once did I ever think of quitting, even though just under half of our platoon did quit; some were homesick and quit, some did not meet the standards set by the training staff and were thus asked to leave, and others just couldn’t hack the discipline. I think I surprised a few people that I managed to stick it out, but I really did enjoy my time in training. There were four others in the Royal Hampshires who passed out with MONS platoon: Privates Day, Ellis, Hedges and Keith Butler, who later changed his name to Lamb (he took his mother’s name). “Mum” Rita had got wind of my passing out parade and turned up with Alan, of all people, the guy she had left her husband and kids for. My dad was there with my brother John and sister Kathy, unaware that Rita and Alan were also there. I was standing on the square with my platoon in Number 1 dress uniform, looking at all the proud parents at the edge of the square taking photos and videos. I could see dad and my siblings at one end of the group and Rita and Alan at the other. One thought went through my mind: “I’m now in the army and the first conflict I’m set to witness is going to be here at my passing out parade!” “Interesting”, I thought, “let’s see how this plays out”. The parade went off without any hitches; we moved off the square and met up with our parents in the cookhouse, where snacks and drinks were laid on. I found the table with my dad, brother and sister and joined them, but to my astonishment Rita and Alan were at the next table. Silence and stares between the tables were followed by Alan getting up and going to the toilet, 2
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followed closely by my dad. What followed in the toilets Dad related to me later; he’d joined Alan in the next urinal and, without looking at him, said “Finish what you’re doing, zip up, go back in there, take her, and get the fuck out of this camp. There’s no way you two are going to spoil my son’s big day”. By the time dad had joined us back at the table, Alan had taken off with Rita. I cannot recall either of them saying goodbye. Way to go, Dad! John, who was in the RAF at the time, had to go back to his barracks after the parade so Dad, Kathy and I got the train back to Eastleigh. I wanted to get changed into civvies but Dad wanted me to stay in my uniform; I guess he was chuffed with me and wanted to show me off, so I wore it all the way home. The train pulled into Eastleigh train station at about 4pm. We got off and I was carrying my hat in my hand when a gentleman in civvies approached me, lent forward and said in my ear “If you are going to wear that uniform, put that fucking hat on”. Dad heard this and seeing the shocked look on my face came forward as I replied to the stranger “Yes sir!”, promptly placed the hat on my head and continued out of the station towards home. Dad said, “Who was that?”, I said I had no idea and was not going to ask; I was wrong for not wearing my hat and I knew it. We were nearly home when we passed three lads, and one of them wolf whistled at me in my uniform; Dad spun around as did my sister, I said “Leave it, we’re nearly home”.
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The day of my passing out parade with sister Kathy at Whittington Barracks.
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We got home and I asked Kathy if she knew the three lads, she said she did and that they would probably be down at the fair which was in town. I said to get changed and I’d take them down to the fair. Needless to say we found the lads; they didn’t recognise me out of uniform but I made myself known to them. I guess this was one of the first times back in Eastleigh since being bullied at school that I’d stuck up for myself. I didn’t fight with these guys but it made me feel good to remind them of the errors of their ways and that I was now a Royal Hampshire Tiger - a British Army killing machine.
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y first duty on leaving basic training, after my initial home leave, was to work at the Southampton Army Careers Office on Bargate Street, where I’d originally enlisted. My brother John had enlisted into the airforce a year earlier at the RAF office next door. It looks like neither of us wanted a career at sea, though that was to change for me 30-odd years later. I was to work in the office to encourage potential recruits into joining the army, by telling them how much I had enjoyed my basic training and how beneficial it would be, both to me and to them, by joining me in having a stunning military career. I enjoyed my 3 weeks there and even went back to my old school to visit and to try and encourage the youth of the day to join the British Army. I am not sure if my words of wisdom encouraged anyone to join up or put them off the idea altogether, but I was given three weeks leave before flying off to Germany to join the regiment in Munster. The regiment consisted of five companies: A, B, Y, Z and HQ company; I was put into B company (6 platoon) and was given a bed space in a 3-man room. I do not unfortunately recall who my roommates were, but it’s amazing how quickly people introduce themselves to you and how fast friendships are built then maintained throughout your military career. Even when you’ve left this family, those friendships will often continue. Even today, at the time of writing this story during the covid19 pandemic, I’m busy booking my room for our regimental reunion in 2022 down in Portsmouth. Unfortunately, this year 6
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it was cancelled due to the pandemic, and even worse was the loss of some of our regiment to COVID-19 and other related illnesses. The latest of these sad losses being a very good friend of mine, Ken Burchell. Ken, when in the regiment, became the world supreme champion at Hapkido, beating the Koreans at their own game. I made so many friends within the battalion that if I were to name them all in here it would take up several pages. There are however some names that will appear throughout this book. This does not mean that other friends have been forgotten, it’s just that I can only put so many of my “adventures” into this book. Believe me, if I were to put down everything I’ve done on paper, it would stretch into two, maybe three books, and I‘m sure I’d end up either dead or back in jail. My first section commander was a guy called Ray Bateman, and what a great guy he was! Along with a few mates, I'd spend many a night out at his “married pad” with his wife Babs and their kids. Munster was a garrison town and the locals didn’t really like us being there, due to the number of fights and trouble the pissed-up squaddies would cause. This used to annoy the likes of me and my mates because whenever we went out, we classed ourselves as ambassadors of the British Army and behaved impeccably, just having a few ales with the locals and even visiting the local churches and museums to catch the cultural side of that fine town. Whilst in Germany our battalion did travel sometimes, apart from the inevitable exercises we were required to do. We trained in an area called Sennelager, the main training ground for the German army prior to the second world war. Whenever we trained, it seemed like it was either raining or snowing. The place really was a shithole; everyone and his uncle trained there, and the bar across the road 7
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from the main camp entrance, Jocks Bar was famous for its ales, loose women and punch-ups. Like I said, pissed-up squaddies ruining it for the others. I can remember on a few occasions running out of money there; me and a few guys would nip down the road, meet the odd German and politely ask him for some drinking money, which funnily enough most gave to us. I remember us waking up one time in the barracks at Sennelager on a cold morning, it had snowed and we were due out on parade before going out onto the training area. I was a section commander on this occasion and in my infinite wisdom decided to make my section the best dressed on parade, so I ordered them to use the sheets from their beds, rip them into shreds and attach them to their webbing for “arctic camouflage”! Well, we went out on parade and really looked the dogs bollocks; my section was the only one to get dressed for the conditions, every other section was in olive green camouflage. I was chuffed as fuck! Well, I was until Sgt. “Nosher” Jenkins piped up “Winton, was this your brainwave?” – “Yes, Sergeant”, I said proudly. “Great” he said, “your lads look good, as do you, great initiative – well done – when you get back off exercise report to me and I will have you sign and pay for the sheets you have destroyed and new sheets to replace them”. “Bollocks!” I thought. Whilst in Munster we had a two-week exchange with some troops from Portugal, and then my first tour of Northern Ireland (Londonderry) in 1979. Our safe return from there was soon marred somewhat by the murder of one of our own – murdered whilst he slept in his own bed, right in our barracks.
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Londonderry, Northern Ireland, with fellow Tigers
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ackey Bridge is in County Fermanagh in the Magherafelt area of Northern Ireland. We’d been in the province for some time now at various locations, doing many foot and helicopter patrols. Helicopter patrols were fantastic, and I strongly advise anyone who hasn’t been in one to give it a try. Our main helicopter was the Lynx; wow, what a fantastic helicopter! We always seemed to get a pilot who’d written on the back of his helmet the words “Luke Skywalker”; whether his name was Luke, Skywalker, or both we never knew but he really had a screw loose when flying. Basically, pilots out there did their own thing, from low flying (hedge-hopping they called it) under electrical pylons, to flying extremely low over Loch Erne. If we were on patrol, sitting on the sides of the helicopter with the doors open and our legs outside, he’d drop the skids down into the water and try to get us wet. One time we were out doing vehicle stops in the helicopter. This would involve the section commander nominating a car to the pilot, who’d then fly close to the moving car and we’d flag it down. Vehicles stopped 99% of the time, but on one occasion a car ignored both the helicopter’s requests and the frantic demands of the rifle-waving soldiers for him to stop and he just drove on. That was until Luke Skywalker flew behind him down the country lanes, so that the driver could look in his rear-view mirror, only to see this fucking great helicopter tailgating him. However he still didn’t stop, so Luke flew low over his car, got down inches from the road, turned the helicopter to face the car then landed on the road. The car came to a sudden halt about 10
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ten feet from the rotor blades, we disembarked and away flew Luke. We searched the car for about twenty minutes but nothing was out of order; the driver claimed the reason he didn’t stop was because he didn’t see us! Yeah right, so we let him go and Luke flew back in to pick us up and continue our patrol. Yep, Luke was just a little bit crazy! We’d been at Lackey Bridge for a while now; this checkpoint was on the border, just over the northern side to the town of Clones, on the southern side where the great boxer Barry Mcguigan lived. He never came through our checkpoint whilst we were there. I’m not sure how long we were to stay at this location but basically our job was to check vehicles and people crossing from north to south and vice versa. The road had the main sanger on it, made of breeze blocks and sandbags, and our living quarters (if that’s what you called them) were made up of the same material. There was a sanger out the back of the living quarters that overlooked the vast countryside that was Fermanagh. There was a large wooded hill off to the left of the rear sanger and on the other side of that hill was Southern Ireland. The wooded area and hill was strewn with ground sensor listening devices; these devices were buried into the ground at random intervals on the hill and in the wooded area, and would be activated by the vibration of people walking over or nearby them. In the daytime if they were activated, the guy in the rear sanger would be notified, he’d take up his binoculars, look in that direction and report on any movement from the area. Most of the time it would be reported that cows from the area had wandered over the sensors and set them off, but better to be safe than sorry. If ever the IRA had wanted to get across 11
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from that area, all they would’ve needed is a pantomime cow costume. Two incidents come to mind at Lackey Bridge; one was in the early evening and one in the early hours of the morning. The early morning incident was reported by the rear sanger to the front road sanger and inside the front sanger were Lt. Alex Porter (our commander) and I. We were on duty but trying to work out a Rubik’s cube, to no avail. The rear sanger asked if we had any patrols out that night; we checked with our HQ and were told that we had no patrols out in our area, so we duly informed the guy on stag in the back sanger that we didn’t have any, then went back to the Rubik’s cube. Something was playing on my mind and I couldn’t figure what it was, but about 15 minutes later I asked Alex why he asked if we had a patrol out. Alex said he didn’t know then got on the radio and asked the back sanger why he had asked about the patrol. His answer stunned us. He said that about 500 metres in front of his sanger, four armed guys with webbing and in combat jackets had crossed from the south to the north avoiding all the sensors. Alex and I went out the back to see if we could spot any of these mystery men but alas they were long gone. We alerted local police and troops in the area to keep an eye out for these men, and I think a helicopter was scrambled up to overlook the area, but nothing was found and no explanation given. I think we put it down to the sanger guy falling asleep and dreaming the whole thing. The second incident involved the listening sensors in the hills and the M79 grenade launcher, which my good friend Alan Slater was in charge of. In the early hours of the morning the 12
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sensors had gone off and Alex Porter had radioed me to go to the front sanger. I got there and he told me to get my patrol ready to go out and check the area of the woods, to see what’d set the sensors off. Being a lazy twat, I said it had probably been some cattle or sheep, like it always was, and was there really a need to go out into the cold and wet, when we could just put up a flare and look from here with our binoculars, but he was adamant that I was to get my guys loaded and up into the woods, to check the area out. I went back into the TV room where the lads were. “Right boys, the boss wants us to kit up and go check out the sensors, because they’ve been activated”. Moans, groans, grunts and swear words aimed at Alex sitting in his warm sanger were accompanied by us all getting our kit on in the TV room and getting our weapons ready (loaded but not cocked). Alan asked me if he should load the M79, I replied “Yes, why not?” and with that he opened up the barrel, loaded in the grenade and promptly closed it, but as the barrel shut and locked into position there was a load bang from the M79. The grenade shot out across the TV room and flew right into the door of the cabinet where the TV stood. Now, you have to picture the scene: six to eight guys in a room, most wearing full kit with weapons, all staring from Alan Slater’s smoking M79 to the grenade stuck in the cabinet door; after what seemed like minutes, but was probably less than 15 seconds of us all gawking and processing the scene in our brains, our feet decided to join in the debate and all at once. In what can only be described as a scene from the Keystone Cops, us guys tried to all fit at once through the exit door, away from the live grenade. Having all made it out of the room, I made my way to see Alex in the front sanger, popping my head around the sanger 13
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door but before I had a chance to say anything Alex said “Why aren’t you on patrol?”. I tried to explain that we were getting ready in the TV room but we’d fired the M79 into the room and a grenade is stuck in the cabinet door, but Alex replied curtly to stop fucking about and get his guys out on patrol. After a few moments of “debate” between myself and Alex about this grenade “stunt” of mine to get out of a patrol, Alex decided to come and look for himself, and sure enough, as we looked around the door into the TV room, there was the grenade tightly wedged into the cabinet door. After accessing the situation and me again explaining what had happened, Alex said first get the M79 and put it to one side so that it can be inspected to see if it was fired normally, or if it had malfunctioned, or whatever. Next, we had to deal with the grenade, but we couldn’t just radio HQ and try to explain the situation, because they would have asked why, in the first place, we were loading weapons in the TV room and not in the loading bay. Our answer would have been that this is what we always do and besides, we didn’t really have a loading/unloading bay. Alex, being the officer, made a couple of decisions. He sent a few guys outside to make up a loading/unloading bay with sandbags, then told me to unscrew the cabinet door and walk the said door and grenade into the sandbagged bay. The sand bags were filled and a makeshift bay was erected. I’d located a screwdriver, unscrewed the door and started to walk the whole thing to the bay but I had yet to get out of the TV room, when I called Alex and asked a nagging question: “Does the grenade have to travel a certain number of metres to arm itself, or does the propellent have to burn for a certain distance before it becomes live?”. After a couple of minutes debate, it was deemed (by those not holding the fucking 14
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grenade) that it was the propellent that had to burn, so the grenade was not live. “Yeah, right” were my thoughts, as I made my way to the bay. I placed the door in the sandbagged area and as I did so the grenade dropped out of the door and landed on the pile of sand surrounded by sandbags. I made a hasty retreat and Alex went and informed HQ of our mishap in the loading bay. All the powers to be were informed, the bomb disposal guys were called in to remove the grenade, they safely blew it up out the back of the sanger area, the M79 was then taken away for examination and it was found to have a faulty firing pin. I don’t think we ever did the patrol, nor did we find out what had sent the sensors off. One point was never raised and still bugs me today, is how come nobody ever questioned why we had a cabinet door that matched the missing one from the TV room, in the loading bay?
15
This day started out as most days did in the battalion. Upon getting up after a night on the piss, breakfast would be eaten. Shit, shower, shave (maybe not in that order, but all done before breakfast). I sat at breakfast with my usual mates: Swannie, Skip, Bubbles, Ken and the Burt brothers. We watched most of the guys coming into the dining areas with the odd crack about who shagged the ugliest bird last night. I won’t say who it was that night, but fair’s fair, each one of us had a turn at winning at some stage or other. We finished breakfast and headed back to the block to get our rooms tidy and beds made for inspection. My room was last in the block and I shared this with Private Phillips. The room across from mine was Private Robbins’ and another private whose name I cannot recall. Next to Robbins’ room was another two-man room and across from that room, next to mine, was a three-man room. The room layout will become apparent later on in this story. Room inspection done and off, out on parade to start the day with a bang. The whole day had gone along, as most days did in the battalion, with training, sports and physical exercise; there was always a run around the camp roads or further afield with or without kit on, and by that I don’t mean naked or dressed. By “kit”, I mean wearing some of our webbing, weighted down with all our survival kit. Lunch would be around 12:30 and afternoons passed at a leisurely pace, usually set by section or platoon commanders. Tea (or “dinner”, as some say) was around 5:00, 16
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then it was wash or shower time, clean kit on, NAAFI bar then town pubs on the pull or for a few pints. Whilst most of us showered, shaved (again) and put on clean clothes, there was one lad who had a habit of going against all the hassle of showering, clean kit, etc. and that was good old Skip. We all had what we called a ‘Doby Bin’; a bin that had all your used/dirty clothes in, ready for its weekly wash. Well good old Skip would delve into his dirty washing bin and fish out matching shirt, trousers, pants and socks, lay them on this bed, strip off, spray the clothes with aftershave and deodorant (and himself) and then proceed to get dressed. Annoyingly, us clean and nice smelling others invariably ended up coming home alone and not scoring with a bird, but Skip always managed to cop off. I’m sure he paid them just to piss us all off, but he assured us it was his good looks, dancing skills and all-round good guy image. Bullshit! I’m not sure but I think this was a Saturday night and for some unknown reason I’d decided to stay in, which for me was rather unusual but hey ho, these things happen. I’d drunk a couple of lagers in the NAAFI bar and decided I was hungry, so I thought I’d pop into town on my motorbike and get “bratty, pommes frites mit mayo” or (in English) sausage, chips and mayonnaise. I drove my bike down to the guard room to book out and saw my good friend Chris Bean. He was from Southampton and owned a yacht, of all things. Anyway, me and “Beany” exchanged verbal abuse which, when you are not on guard and your mate is, the phrase “stag on” will always arise. Asking if anyone wanted grub from town, two of the guards gave me their orders. So, with their deutschmarks in my hand, I left to get on 17
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my bike. As I was getting on, I saw Private “Jeffers” Jefferies standing by the front gate, looking at a piece of paper and talking to himself. I approached him and said “Hey Jeffers, what are you up to?”, he replied “Nothing really”, but then said he had a beef with a few people. I think I said “Well, chill out mate and sleep on it, I’m off into town, do you want some grub?”. He declined my offer and started to walk into camp, paper in hand, mumbling he was going to kill someone. I laughed this off and thought no more of it, as those sorts of words have been spoken by many people in anger before, including me. I jumped on my bike and off I went into town. I think I might have grabbed a pint in town in a bar called 65-77 club, at least I think it was called that. It was near the “bratty” shop so it was handy, and with my food ready I bid farewell to the guys in the bar and set off back to camp. The ride back was an uneventful ten-minute drive, food was dropped in the guard room for the two guys and I headed to my room to eat mine. I parked my bike up and made my way to my room. A few of the lads were dossing around but most were in their rooms asleep or getting ready to crash out for the night. On entering my room, I noticed that Private Phillips was asleep in his bed opposite mine, so I opted to change into shorts, made myself comfortable in bed and unwrapped my grub. I guess I was halfway through my meal when I heard someone knock on my door. I placed my grub to one side and got up to open the door. To my surprise “Jeffers” was there and he was holding a pickaxe handle. Now, with your military combat kit you either have a shovel or pickaxe head and pickaxe handle. I presumed the handle was from Jeffers’ own kit. I asked him 18
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what he wanted, to which he replied he wanted a chat with “Phillips”. I said he was sleeping. He said it would not take long and could he have a few minutes alone with him. I said something along the lines of “fucking hurry up, my food’s getting cold”. He said he wouldn’t be long, so I stood in the corridor whilst he went inside, closing the door. I’m guessing between 5 to 10 seconds had passed when I heard from my room a loud bang/thump, so loud that I burst back into the room to see Jeffers about to swing the pickaxe handle again and it was aimed at Phillips’ head, who appeared to be unharmed but groggy and half asleep trying to sit up in bed. It transpired that Jeffers had walked across the room where Phillips was asleep and swung the pick handle, aiming it at Phillips’ head but narrowly missing him and hitting the headboard instead, which was the sound I’d heard. He was in mid-swing with a second blow which no doubt would have connected with the waking Phillips’ head. I grabbed Jeffers’ arm and pick handle and said along the lines of “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”. Jeffers, calm as you like, said he only wanted to chat with Phillips. Well, I told him to “fuck off out of my room and see Phillips in the morning”. So, he left with his handle. I closed the door and I got back into bed to eat my grub. A couple of mouthfuls of chips later and with Phillips getting back to sleep, the door suddenly flew open and Jefferies stormed up to my bed, his pick handle was at his side and I was up and out to meet him face to face before he was upon me. In a calm voice he said, “Why did you throw me out of this room?” I explained it was too late to talk to Phillips or me, my food was getting cold and could he leave and see Phillips in the morning. This seemed to placate him so he agreed and left the room. I closed and 19
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locked my door and glanced across at Phillips, who was fast asleep. I got back into bed and placed my chips in the bin as they were now cold, turned off my light and settled in for a good night’s sleep. I was probably settled down for five minutes when the door to the room next to mine opened and closed again a few seconds later, and this also happened to the room diagonally to mine. Again, a door opened then closed within a few seconds. I was a little curious about this and when the room opposite me, where Private Robbins slept, went through the same routine (door open then closed within a few seconds), I was past curious, more a little pissed off at my food being ruined and my sleep being interrupted with all the door banging. Well, about 5 minutes passed by and again I was just getting into the land of nod when, low and behold, the room’s door opposite mine, belonging to Private Robbins, opened and closed with a big bang. I was out of bed in a shot, annoyed. I opened my door just in time to see Jefferies running out the door at the end of the block, carrying, yep you got it, his pick handle. I hurled abuse a him along the lines of “Fuck off now Jefferies, if you wake me again, I’ll knock you out”. I slammed my door and got into bed, hoping that a good night’s sleep would then follow. Boy, how wrong was I on that one! Just as I thought sleep was going to finally set in, I was roused into alertness yet again by my door being crashed open, and larger than life in the door frame was one of the night guards. It was Chris Bean again. All he uttered was “Winnie, where are your handcuffs?” Now, do not ask me why I had handcuffs, but I did! Anyway, pointing to my locker I said “They're hanging inside the right door”. He 20
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opened my locker, grabbed them and rushed out of the room, leaving my door ajar. I huffed to myself and got up to shut it but this time lock it too, but I was stopped in my tracks when I saw Chris locking my handcuffs onto Jeffers’ hands behind his back. Not only was Chris putting them on him, he was making them tight by hitting them with his guard patrol pick handle. Jeffers was face down on an empty bed, arms behind his back and his head and face were facing the door, facing me, and he had a weird smile on his face. I said to Chris “What the fuck’s he done now, Chris?” to which Chris just looked at me and cocked his head in the direction of Private Robbins’ bed. Well, what the fuck can I say? I looked over at Robbins’ bed and my mind tried to digest what I was looking at. In a nutshell, if you went into a butcher’s shop on the high street and asked him to lay on the floor, then got his liver, kidneys and any other red meat/offal he had, and proceeded to pour them over the butcher’s head, well that’s what Robbin’s bed looked like. Robbins had been, and still was, lying on his bed. His legs were both at grotesque angles and covered in blood, as were his arms. His torso was a complete sea of blood, bones, sinew and what resembled brain matter. Robbin’s head was smashed to a pulp and spattered up the wall and across the ceiling. That’s how much force had gone into the actions of Jeffers and the pick handle. Robbins (and I knew it was him because of his tattooed arm) was clearly dead, way beyond any possible medical help. Surprisingly I did not react in any way, except to look at Chris Bean again, who said “There’s another one in the next block, Winnie.” Without any hesitation I took off out of the room and headed for the other block. On route I was joined by Larry 21
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Clack, who was the Battalion’s duty medic and had been summoned on the radio by Chris. I’d heard that Larry had taken up being a medic after killing someone in the boxing ring with a right hand, but that’s another story and although it’s supposed to be true, I don’t have any proof. I told Larry that Robbins was a no-go but there was another in this block somewhere. So, we entered the block and searched room-by-room for a casualty. About the 4th room we checked belonged to Private Gibson (Gibbo). To me he looked like Robbins, only not quite as bloody. Although Gibbo’s head was a mess, I could still make out it was him. Larry went into action and immediately gave mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, only this turned out to be futile as each time Larry blew air into Gibbo’s airway, it was bubbling out through the sides of his head. This looked like a lost cause so Larry told me (and another lad who had entered the room) to hold Gibbo’s head tightly together so he could get air into his body. So, with six hands holding Gibbo’s head together, Larry managed to get some air into Gibbo’s lungs. We kept this up for about 15 minutes until more help arrived (ambulance, police, the works). We did what we could, bandaging Gibbo up as best we could that night, and when he left in an ambulance that was the last time I ever saw him. I never saw Robbin’s body being removed and to be totally honest the rest of the night and the morning after were a blur. I could not say to this day what time the whole saga started and finished. The commanding officer, Lt. Col. Martin (“Tubby” Martin was his nickname, but obviously not used to his face) turned up in our block and by now the news had got around and everyone 22
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and their dog was awake. I remember Lt. Col. Martin telling me, Chris, Larry and a few others that we had acted well and it was surely something we would never forget; that that night, we’d started out as boys and had become men by the morning. A weird statement to make, but it stuck with me. Obviously, the Old Bill arrived, as did the SIB (the Army Police) and Military Police. Although I never saw all who came to our battalion that night, I’m told everyone and their aunts were there in one capacity or another, but like I said most of what happened after the main incident is a blur to me. Later that morning I gave my statement, as did all the others, to the SIB. This whole incident was dealt with internally by the British Army judicial system and after I made my statement that morning, I was not called upon again, nor did I appear at any trial for Private Jefferies. Apparently, my statement was all that was required. I heard Private Jeffries got life at Her Majesty's pleasure. I’m not sure if he is still inside, been let out, alive or dead. I do know from friends that the army had covered it up big time; I don’t think it even got into the UK papers. I did hear that Chris Bean and Larry, the medic, got some kind of commendation for their actions that night – good for them! It turned out that Private Jefferies had had a run in with a few guys, and with Private Phillips on exercise or on the ranges, had been harbouring a beef about it and was going to “straighten it out with him” that night. In fact, Jeffers had a “hit list” of people he was going to “talk to” that night. This was the paper I must have seen him with at the guard room earlier that evening. From what I’ve heard, Jeffers had been to see, and had argued with, a few guys in different rooms before coming to see Phillips in my 23
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room, but because I was in the room, Jeffers took his anger elsewhere. He’d entered the room next to mine to find two or three guys awake in there, so he left. The room diagonally from mine he had entered but had no one in I think, so he left and entered Robbins’ room, found him asleep, and took his anger out there. Robbins was never on his “hit list” nor was Gibbo, they just happened to be in their rooms on their own. Jeffers was caught by Chris Bean outside our block with the bloody pick handle in his hand and had led Chris back into the block and into Robbins’ room to show him his “work”. That is when he told Chris about the “other one” - Private Gibson. I heard Gibbo pulled through, although he’s never been the same since. I often wonder if I had acted differently towards Jeffers on that first encounter at the guardroom or in my room, would things have panned out differently? If I’d got up when he first entered Robbins’ Room and had investigated the door slamming thing instead of when I did get up (after he’d left Robbins’ room), would that have changed things? Funny thing, those two words “what if?”
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Swannie and I. A part of the Regimental boxing team 25
We had just returned from Northern Ireland (Armagh), when the Falklands kicked off. We watched it all unfold on TV avidly, just like everyone else around the world; after all, we were at war! The Royal Hampshire regiment was deployed to the Falklands in 1982, just after the cessation of hostilities. Our job was basically clearing up after the war and dealing with the minefields along with the Royal Engineers; we even had to dig up and rebury dead Argentinian soldiers. We flew down from the RAF base at Brize Norton to the Ascension Islands in the South Atlantic and from there, sailed down to the Falklands on an old Sealink ferry called The St. Edmund, which still had the British Rail sign on the funnel. The trip down to the Falklands was a great experience. This next piece is about my involvement in a minefield, an anti-personnel mine, and a Royal Engineers major having a leg blown off. Major Stephen Hambrook was his name, and sadly has since passed away, although not from injuries suffered in the Falklands. The month was January, 1983. We were based in Fox Bay West, I say “West”, as there is also Fox Bay East, and our company was divided between Fox Bay East and West. I was guard commander and was sitting in the “guardroom”, which was just a room in a house that we were staying in whilst located there. It was early afternoon when I heard a distant explosion, but it was not at all unusual to hear the odd explosion around Fox Bay, as we knew that the bomb disposal guys from the Royal Engineers were about doing their thing. Besides, it was not unusual for the odd sheep to wander into a minefield, 26
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step on a mine and travel 100 yards into the air, spreading its fleece and body parts over a wide area of the minefield. A few minutes after the explosion, a Land Rover came speeding up to the house we were in and, braking to a halt, the driver jumped out and came to the guardroom door. He said to me that he had heard the explosion, as I had, and looking in the direction of the explosion and the subsequent plume of smoke had seen three red flares fired into the air from that direction. Now I knew that the signal of three red flares meant danger or someone in need of help, so I looked in the direction of the plume of smoke and, although I didn’t see any more flares, I knew something was wrong. I ran into the guardroom, grabbed the radio which I strapped to my back, attached the throat mic and earpiece, then called the medic (I cannot recall his name). Ian Lambert (my second in command) and the three of us started running in the direction of the plume of smoke. I’d got myself really fit in my time in the Falklands because I was going to go for selection to join the SAS, but that all got “binned” because the army was going to kick me out. Seven of our regiment had gotten into a fight in Folkestone prior to the Falklands and were going to be kicked out by the army on our return, but that’s another story for later. Apparently, even with two tours of Northern Ireland and one of the Falklands under your belt, you can still get kicked out, merely for “fighting”. Anyway, we’d run uphill for about 600 metres when we spotted someone coming over the hill from the direction of the smoke. When we got to him he was out of breath, but managed to convey to us that someone had been blown up in Minefield 4, pointing in the direction of the smoke, and that they’d lost their 27
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leg below the knee. By now another member of the guard had joined us at the hill and I told him to take this guy down to the guardroom, give him a sweet cup of tea (for shock), get him relaxed and maybe start on a statement of the incident. We let them go down the hill to the house and we carried on to Minefield 4. By now, I could see my platoon sergeant coming up the hill; Sgt. William (Bill) Baker, a seasoned soldier, and after him our platoon commander, Lt. Alex Porter (a great guy who will come up again later on). Bill Baker was the 2nd in command. We didn’t wait for Sgt. Baker, but carried on in the direction of the minefield. I got onto the radio and informed Fox Bay East of what had occurred. I’m not sure what our call signs were, but let's say Fox Bay East was “ONE” and I was “ONE ALFA”. This is how my radio report went in the first instance: “Hello ONE this is ONE ALFA contact Minefield 4, one casualty, send STARLIGHT wait out”. Basically this meant “Hello boss this is Winnie, incident in Minefield 4, one casualty, send a medical helicopter”. “Wait out” means “wait for further information from me”. “ONE” came back with all sorts of questions, such as who was injured, what was the injury, when and why did this happen; basically, every question I couldn’t answer until I was on the scene. I was running at a fair pace over rough terrain with the others and having a throat mic and trying to make myself understood was very hard. I reiterated my initial contact report and said I would update this when I was on scene; I’d been informed that STARLIGHT had been launched, along with another helicopter and they were on their way over to Minefield 4.
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We arrived at what we believed to be Minefield 4 and saw one guy standing outside the wire and another guy (Major Hambrook) on the ground holding his leg, or what was left of it, in the air. A little distance from him was a small crater, which had been the mine explosion area; this hole was still smoking, as was an army boot with the remains of the major’s leg in it, which lay some yards from the crater. The major was surprisingly not in any pain, or at least he appeared not to be, and was quite coherent and calm. I asked myself if I would’ve been so calm in this situation, but this thought did not last long as we had a guy to save, so we went into action. I stepped over one wire fence and started to walk along another towards the casualty, and I’d almost reached him when I stopped dead in my tracks. Turning to Ian and the medic, I called out “STOP”. The thought went through me right there and then that if the major had trodden on a mine, then there could well be more of them around here. Fuck, was I in a dilemma! By now, Bill Baker had arrived outside the fence with the other royal engineer and STARLIGHT had arrived over on Fox Bay West, only it was about 2 or 3 miles away, hovering over another area of minefields. Bill Baker got out some flares and fired some in the air, trying to get the helicopter’s attention. In the meantime, the medic had inched along the wire fence to where the major and I were, and we both started to administer first aid. We got a drip into him, a tourniquet on his leg, gave him morphine and stuck a dry dressing on his exposed stump below the knee. Ian remained where he was, giving instructions to Sgt. Baker on how to get the helicopter’s attention; in the meantime ONE was again on the radio asking me questions, so I filled them in with as much information as I could. Every soldier has what is called 29
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a ZAP number and it’s usually written on your first field dressing (personal bandage) which is usually attached to your webbing by your shoulder. Well, we’d used Major Hambrook’s bandage and I’d radioed the casualty’s identification by his ZAP number, but they wanted his name, and although radio procedure indicates that a ZAP number should be given, well, in no uncertain terms, I was told to give his name over the air which I did: name, rank and number; blood group; injuries and treatment given, including two morphines which I had drawn on the major’s forehead (which was procedure Mx2) and attached the used morphine capsules to his jacket. I didn’t know at the time, but I was later told by Corporal Dave Belton that I repeated all this information a few times; well, better safe than sorry, right? We were ready to move the casualty to Port Stanley by helicopter, only the bloody thing was still hovering some miles away. Poor old Bill Baker had run out of flares and was waving his arms up and down, trying to attract the attention of STARLIGHT some 2 miles away. Not a hope there, so I got on the radio and asked ONE to tell the helicopter to hover; the information was relayed and I saw it hover; I told ONE to tell it to turn right. Relaying the information, it turned right, but before I could relay to ONE to tell it to stop turning, it had passed turning in our direction. This happened two or three more times, so in the end I told ONE to tell the pilot to get on our radio frequency, which he did. I radioed to the pilot to turn and stopped him when facing in our direction, albeit two miles away. I threw a green smoke grenade and told the pilot to look for it two miles ahead. He acknowledged the smoke, dipped his 30
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nose and came forward. I smile now as I write this because Bill Baker's face was a picture; he turned to me, the medic and Ian and shouted “I’ve got the helicopter's attention, it’s on its way”. Bless him! As the helicopters flew to us we prepared the major for his removal and flight to Port Stanley; one helicopter was now at our position and Sgt. Baker was trying to get it to land, by signalling with arms extended to his sides and lowering them to the ground. I guess his idea was for us to move the casualty to the helicopter, but I was worried as where he wanted it to land was, in my view unsafe, so I got on the radio and, without voice procedure, said “Do not land here, I’m not sure what’s a minefield and what’s not”. I told him to come to me and hover next to us, and that me and the medic would lift the casualty on board. That agreed, the pilot navigated the chopper to us and we safely placed the major on board; the pilot then moved away, thanked us for our support, and was away to the hospital with the casualty. I never saw the major again. As the chopper flew off, I remembered we had a second chopper in the air, so I called on it to come and airlift us out of the area we were in. Like I said, I had no idea what was safe to walk on and what was not, so the chopper came in and the medic was first to be lifted out, then it was Ian's turn. He climbed on the skid of the helicopter and hung on; as he flew past me I made a “camera clicking” sign with my hands, but he shook his head. We normally carried cameras to get photos at opportunities like this, but we didn’t have time to get them when we ran from the guardroom; it’s a pity as I was last on the skid of the helicopter and it would have made a great photo.
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We were dropped next to Sgt. Baker and the other royal engineer and we made our way back to the house and guardroom, ready for a nice cup of sweet hot tea. On the way down I was still relaying information to ONE about the casualty and his evacuation to Port Stanley. When we got back to the guard room, we found out that the original man we saw on the hillside had already been taken over to Fox Bay East, and plans were being made to get the other engineer over to the east side. Sgt. Baker said that we had to sit down and write out our statements of the events, from start to finish. Well, the statements were written and checked over by Sgt. Baker; they really all said about the same, which is what is written here in this chapter, but Sgt. Baker said they were too detailed and too long, so we needed to shorten them which we did, but again Sgt. Baker said the same, so in the end this was the context of my statement to the facts of the rescue: “I heard an explosion and was informed about the three red flares; as guard commander I put on the radio, followed Sgt. Baker up to the incident and assisted with the rescue”. The others followed suit on my statement. Whilst we’d been doing our statements, a message came across from Fox Bay East from the engineers that they’d like to meet up and have a drink with all involved in the rescue of Major Hambrook. Well, Sgt. Baker deemed that as he was the senior person on the rescue, plus the fact that Ian and I were still on guard, that we should stay on Fox Bay West (on guard) and that he would go over and represent all of us. Dave Belton said that he would cover me, and another soldier said he would cover Ian’s duty, but Sgt. Baker said “no”. Sgt. Baker was happy with our statements and took them over to Fox Bay East, to have drinks with the engineers and to reminisce on the rescue 32
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of their major. I understand that Sgt. Baker got a commendation for his actions that day, but they couldn’t give one to me, could they? Because plans were already in the pipeline for kicking me and six others out of the army. Years later, I heard from Lt. Alex Porter and he told me his take on this incident, which led to him leaving the army.
33
Well, this was a fun episode! My section had been tasked with going up Fox Bay Mount, staying there for five days and setting up an observational patrol. So off we jolly well went. After a leisurely “patrol” through Fox Bay West, around the base of the mountain and up to the top, it’s not that big a mountain so I suppose we were up there within four hours from leaving our base. I don’t know if you are aware of the weather conditions down in the Falklands, but you can seriously get five or six different types of weather in an hour – from snow to sunbathing weather – it really is that mad there! Anyway, it was sunny when we left base and it was still sunny when we got to the top of the mountain, which was good since a dry and warm soldier is a happy soldier. We set up “camp” at the summit and made radio contact with Lt. Alex Porter down at base, who gave instructions to check back by radio every 12 hours with base and to report anything suspicious that we might see. Well, I didn’t foresee anything suspicious happening, so I told the lads to set up their positions so that we had all around lookout from the mountain top, then I set up a patrol watch routine, making sure that at least one group of two men were overlooking the house where Alex and the rest of the platoon were. I didn’t want anyone from the house coming up and surprising us, so with two people keeping watch, I literally stood everyone else down to either sleep, read or (if the sun was out) to catch some rays. We were going to have a good restful five days up there. On about the third day everything was going fine and the lads were well rested, so I decided to have a walk around the mountain 34
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top. I don’t know why no one had spotted this before, but I noticed some tarpaulins covered in rocks, stones, branches and dirt; I looked under the tarpaulin and noticed some loose ammunition, ammunition boxes plus what appeared to be a rifle barrel and some pistols. I called up Ian Lambert and we both looked a little closer, but not moving the tarpaulin too much as we didn’t know what this was, or who it belonged to. I gathered the rest of my section together to see what I’d found, and we had a group discussion (“Chinese parliament” we called it) as to what this was and how we were going to proceed, to get to the bottom of it. Well, we deduced that this was an Argie ammo dump and we needed to find out if it was boobytrapped. One way of doing this was to inform Alex down at base camp, who would then inform the Royal Engineers, who would probably come and blow the lot up, just to be on the safe side. The other way was for us to uncover it and see what spoils of war we could get for our section. Option 1 meant that whatever was under the tarpaulin would not end up in my possession, option 2 was really about “BOYS AND THEIR TOYS”, so option 2 it was! With that decided, I went into “bomb disposal” mode, and with a length of cord about 10 feet long tied to the corner of the tarpaulin, and after removing 90% of the rocks, stones and branches, we gathered on the end of the rope. With one almighty pull the tarpaulin came away, leaving a vast array of weapons, bombs, grenades and ammunition; in fact there was enough kit here for a small war! I’m guessing that this was to be the last stand position at Fox Bay during the war by the Argies. Anyway, this kit was all mine now and I really was like a kid in a toy shop: “BOYS AND THEIR TOYS, OHHHH 35
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YES!!!”. We now had fourteen Colt 45 pistols, one FN rifle (which was the same as our British SLR, only this Argie one could fire automatically, as in, one pull on the trigger would empty a magazine of 20 rounds) and numerous grenades of different types, plus high explosive, phosphorous and “flash bangs” (stun grenades). There were also boxes and loose ammunition for both the FN and the colt 45’s. This was going to be fun! I also found what I initially thought were mortar bombs, but on closer inspection we found out these were called Energa anti-tank rifle grenades, of which there were eleven. Now we had to find out how we could get them to fire and explode! My section left the mountain after our five days “patrol”, well rested and well stocked-up with weapons and ammunition. When we got back down to the house, we stored everything under it apart from the FN rifle and colt 45’s, which me and Ian kept to ourselves. Word got out about the 45’s and everybody and their mum wanted one, so I kept two of them, Ian kept one, and the others went to various people within the platoon: officers, sergeants, corporals and privates alike. The ammo for the colt 45’s wasn’t great; it must have got damp because only about 2 out of 5 were any good; from a loaded magazine you would probably only get 4 or 5 shots out of it – it really was crap ammo. The FN ammo was good as 99% of it worked, in fact we had so much 7.62mm ammo for the FN that we used it for spare ammo for our own rifles (you can never have enough spare ammo to play with) and some of it we broke down to make homemade bombs and rockets with the gun powder. We really did have fun blowing things up; I’ll explain this later. The Energa grenades were 36
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heavy so during my next venture out into the wilds of West Falklands we took about 4 or 5 of them, which we were going to try to fire. Up on the mountain, amongst the ammo dump we also found what I believed to be the sight for the Energa grenades plus FN and some blank ammunition, which again I believed was to be used to set the grenade in flight. When my section and I were far enough away from Fox Bay West and East that any explosion from these grenades would not, or could not, be linked to me or my section, we set about trying these babies out. The sight slid over the barrel and opened up to show ranges from 50m to 400m; “how cool!” we thought. The Energa grenade slipped over the end of the barrel because there was a hole in the base of it; now logic meant that you did not ignite the fuse of this grenade with a live round, it had to be with a blank round, so I loaded the barrel with one blank round and we were ready to rock! I had the grenade on, sight on and blank round in the spout ready to fire, with the safety catch on. I called forward one of the privates in my section and said “Go into the middle of that field, place the butt of the rifle on the ground, and fire the grenade off’. The lad didn’t batter an eyelid; he took the rifle and marched off into the field, ready to fire the grenade; was I brave or stupid enough to fire the first one? Was I fuck! The lad placed the butt on the ground, took off the safety catch, tilted the rifle to an angle away from him and pulled the trigger. There was a small bang as the grenade left the rifle, it soared into the air and with the low cloud base disappeared from view, but came down about 350 yards from the firing point and landed with a huge explosion into the ground. I was ecstatic, leapt to my feet and ran to the guy with the rifle who was beaming from ear to ear; we had four more to fire and spent the rest of the day 37
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locating targets to destroy. Now, animal lovers everywhere, I am sorry for this next bit, but some of these grenades were fired into herds of sheep. The devastation was not as expected, because of the Falklands terrain, where most of the land is wet and sodden. The grenades were exploding downwards into the soft ground, rather than upwards as they are intended in an antipersonnel role. Although these grenades are normally used for anti-tank warfare, we were having fun with them no matter what or how they exploded. The art of firing these grenades was to hold the butt of the rifle on the ground or under your arm and aim the sight in the direction you want the grenade to fly and land. If you held the rifle in the shoulder, I was sure that the recoil of the weapon would be far worse than that of the 7.62mm round, and I was proved right on this fact when one of the lads asked if he could fire one. It was the last one we had brought out so I said he could; I set it up ready for him to fire with the safety catch on and he got into position in a ditch, asking me what was the best way to aim and fire it. I said to put it on his shoulder, lean in hard on it, then aim and fire it. He did as he was told and crumpled to the ground holding his shoulder; he was in pain but all we could do was laugh at the stupid pratt for doing it; you have to understand squaddie humour to realise what children we really are! Anyway after putting a little ointment on his shoulder with some padding, he was fairly fit and well and we made our way back to the settlement. The Colt 45’s became Ian’s and my personal “toys”; we took them everywhere and would shoot at anything and everything, that is to say when the ammunition worked. I remember me and Ian messing about one day with the pistols; we’d made 38
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“western” type holsters for them. I had my two 45's on each side of my hips and Ian had his on his right hip, anyway we were shooting the odd “upland goose”, which were pretty rife on the island so no one was going to miss a couple, and Ian had shot a couple of sheep. Why? Because he could, he’d said; anyway we were messing about and Ian picked up a glass bottle that was on the ground, threw it into the air, and in cowboy fashion drew his pistol from the holster and shot at the bottle. I was gobsmacked because he hit it and it shattered completely, so I found a bottle and tried to emulate Ian’s shot; I must have thrown that bottle in the air and fired at it about 15 times, but could I hit it, could I hell! I was gutted and a little pissed off as Ian’s smirk widened with each of my shots missing, so in the end I passed my bottle to him and demanded that he throw it in the air again, draw his pistol, and hit it, but Ian ruefully declined the offer, insisting that he’d done it once and did not need to do it again just to prove a point. What a bastard! He did later admit that it was obviously a lucky shot and he probably couldn’t do it again, but I didn’t care; it still pissed me off that he’d done it and I couldn’t. We’d been on patrol one day and were at a rest point when Alex Porter came up to me and said “Winnie, what have you brought out today?”. Alex was a great guy for an officer and I didn’t know one guy in the platoon who didn’t like him; he was fair with the guys and if your job was done he was all right with it, however if the shit from company HQ ever hit his door about our platoon’s performance then the shit would certainly hit ours, so we always did good by him. I told Alex that we had obviously brought our Colt 45’s and ammunition but also 39
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brought some grenades; I pulled one from my ammo pouch and showed him, he asked me how effective they were and I admitted that I did not know, in fact Ian and I had not even tested one. Alex being Alex said, “OK, test one”, so I looked around for a place to throw this grenade and noticed a group of guys in a circle making a brew, so I pulled the pin on the grenade, threw it into the circle, and shouted “Grenade!”. Well, the lads in the circle replicated the scene in the CLONES checkpoint incident in Northern Ireland when Alan Slater had his “accident” with the grenade launcher, in the TV room. The guys heard the shout “Grenade!”, saw it land amongst them, looked in amazement at it, looked at each other, then they, Ian, Alex and me dispersed in all directions from the grenade, but one of the guys hadn’t “clocked” the situation; it hadn’t registered with him that there was a live grenade near him. I ran towards him, dived full length, hitting him in the chest, and we both spun away from the grenade on the ground which exploded a couple of seconds later. I’m guessing the fuse was about eight seconds long, but the whole episode seemed to go in slow motion, anyway the grenade exploded downwards into the soft ground, no one was hurt, we all had a laugh apart from the guy whose mess tin, Hexi burner and brew kit disappeared along with the exploding grenade. Yes, we had a laugh in true squaddie fashion and someone else started up another brew. We experimented with some other grenades; when I say “experiment”, what I mean is we played with some other grenades. One “game” was to tie a grenade to a sheep, tie some string to the pin, and smack the sheep so that it ran off with us holding the string and the pin being released from the grenade. Well, I’m sure you can guess the outcome. Yes, lamb stew! We 40
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did on another occasion booby trap a bridge with a grenade to “surprise” another section following us; it was I think Al Slater’s section. We’d attached a grenade to one side of a rickety wooden bridge and tied a string to the pin that went across the bridge. It was a crude booby trap and would not have fooled anyone, but did we have the decency to radio Al’s section and warn them it was there? After all, we didn’t want to kill anyone, did we??!! Anyway, Alex said that we should not bring or “play” with the grenades anymore so we never did; we just left them under the house/billet with all the other stuff we brought down from the mountain ammo dump. Putting all this gear under the billet nearly got me lynched by the bosses of the company.
41
Isn’t it funny how an evening out, followed by a small scuffle and fight with someone, could lead to me getting jailed for three and a half years for “grievous bodily harm with intent” (which, under the law, is just one charge below that of manslaughter)? Funnily enough, the fight that night was not the one that got me jailed. Allow me to explain. I was by now the Kent heavyweight boxing champion, not that that title really meant anything when it came to street fighting, as the two are quite different things. Whilst boxing training, and trying to keep my head clear, I had decided to go on a month-long detox by not drinking. I have to say that I did like a drink, and for me to go out and only have one or two beers never really happened, as I would always end up going over the top and drinking too much, but hey-ho that was me then. So going on a self-imposed “detox” by not drinking for a month must have led a few of my friends to have a wager as to whether I would stick to it or not. Anyway, I was in week four of my abstaining from beer and felt very good about myself. Along came a Saturday night and some of the guys were going out on a stag night. I cannot recall whose stag it was and I suppose it’s of little consequence; anyway I said I would join the group and meet them at a nightclub called NuAge (nicknamed “Underage” due to the kids that used to gain entry with false ID’s). You may recall that I used to work on the door there; anyway we met up outside and it was declared that as I was not drinking I would keep my eye on the guys, as the drinks would be flowing. As the local army regiments used the
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nightclub as well, I would “oversee” any trouble that could blow up between the guys and the army lads. We’d just paid our entrance fee into the club (well, the others did; I was given free access due to having worked there previously, also because the head doorman John Lamoon could always rely on my help when required, like if a scrap was getting out of control). We were making our way to the upper level of the club when we came across another group of lads who I later found out to be “Tunnel Tigers”. These were workers who were employed on the channel tunnel that was being built at the time. There was jovial banter between the stag group and the Tunnel Tigers; nothing malicious, just hijinks and banter which I joined in with by pointing at a guy who was wearing glasses and saying “Hey, it’s Joe 90”. For those of you who are my age, you will recall the Puppet Show in the late 1960's and a character called Joe 90. Anyway, “Joe 90” flew into a hissy fit with me, saying that I was disrespectful and a twat, along with a stream of other choice obscenities, and began jabbing his finger in my direction, clearly spoiling for an argument. Well, me being clearly sober and Joe 90 having had a few beers, I decided to back down, hold up my hands, and apologise to him in front of his mates. Now came the age-old situation that all my fights up to that point have stemmed from. I would back down and people would take that as me fearing them, then they’d proceed to push me into the inevitable fight and its outcome. Joe 90 went into full macho-mode and upon seeing me on the defensive decided that he could take me on (big mistake, Joe!). “I want to fight you” he declared, but I’m still backing off and 43
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with hands up said to him and his mates “Look, I’m sorry, let me get you all a drink and let’s let bygones be bygones”. This spurred Joe 90 to press the need for a fight with me even more, but by now head doorman John Lamoon and the guys from the stag party were urging Joe 90 not to go outside with me. I’m even trying to explain that I was sober, a boxer, and it would be unwise to go outside with me. But this really was like a red rag to a bull and he insisted that me and him were to go outside for a fight. After much discussion I said to him “OK we’ll go outside, just me and you, no weapons, no police and only the winner is allowed back in” and he agreed to this. I handed my glass of Coke to John and said I’d be back in a minute, then stepped out the side exit door, followed by Joe 90. We squared off against each other and I told him “OK hit me, take the first punch free, the rest you pay for”. Well, in his tipsy state he tried to dance around me in a sparring motion, clearly having watched too many movies, and took two swings at me, which missed. I swung a right hand, he went down and I moved in. He was bleeding from the mouth and nose, so I grabbed him by the neck and got him to his feet; he said “Enough, no more”. I said “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hit you anymore”, took a handkerchief from my pocket, cleaned his face up and said “Come on, let’s go inside and I’ll get you a beer”. “I’m not going back in there” he said, “you and your mates might beat me up”. I explained that if he was going to get beaten, it would be by me, there and now, but he was adamant about not going back inside. Again I apologised and asked if he was OK, but he just brushed me off and staggered off away from the club. I knocked on the side door, John opened it and I took my Coke from him. I explained to his mates where he was, and that apart 44
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from one punch to the face he was OK and on his way home. The stag night group and the Tunnel Tigers went different ways in the club and that night our paths never crossed again. I thought that was the end of the issue, as I’d done little damage and really had spent little time outside. In fact, I’d spent more time talking and saying sorry to him than fighting him. Thinking that was the end of it was a mistake which was to lead me to court and a prison sentence. The next day I was sitting in Bluffs wine bar with a few people, including my mate Justin, who you will remember was with the stag party and who I had boxed. Anyway, as we were sitting there chatting, Justin said “Don’t look now, but that guy you had a fight with last night has just walked in with five other guys”. Well, I looked over my shoulder and sure enough, there was Joe 90 with five of his mates standing at the bar. I got up, strolled over and said “All right mate, remember me from last night?” he said he did. I said “Look, I have apologised, sorry how things turned out, let me get you and your mates a beer”, he said that they were not staying and that they had only come in to use the toilet. Sure enough one of them used the toilet and they left. I went back to sit with Justin and the others and related what had just happened. Some 10-15 minutes later I decided that I needed to use the toilet, so I got up and went to use the little boys’ room; whilst in there, a gentleman who I now know as Pat Neary had entered the bar. Neary had looked around the bar, and seeing a big guy sitting near the window (Justin Hutton) went and sat next to him. Let it be known that no one in that bar had a clue who this Pat Neary was, but he was a very big, broad-shouldered guy who worked down the Channel 45
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Tunnel, another Tunnel Tiger. Pat Neary apparently thought Justin was me, so he said to Justin “You had a fight with my mate last night, didn’t you?”. Justin, taken aback, said “What?”. Pat Neary said “My mate, he was just in here, you had a fight with him last night”. Well Justin, in all innocence said “No mate, that wasn’t me, that was Winnie, he’s in the toilet”, pointing towards the little boys’ room. Pat Neary got up and approached the toilet. Well, there I was, standing at the urinal with “John Thomas” in hand, when this mountain of a man stood behind me in the doorway. Looking over my shoulder I said “All right, mate”. He didn’t reply, so I finished my business and zipped up, but turning around, I saw that he was still blocking the doorway. He stood there and asked if I was Winnie, I said “Yes, why?”. He said “Did you have a fight with my mate last night?”. I said “yes”, and that funnily enough he’d just been in here with his mates. I proceeded to say that I had apologised to him last night and had just apologised to him and his mates a little while ago here in this bar, offering them a beer. Well, he pushed out his hand onto my chest as I tried to pass him in the doorway and said “I’m here to take you over to the Elephant and Hind pub to apologise to him in front of all his mates”. Well, I said that there was no way I was going over the road with him to say sorry to someone who had picked a fight with me, and in fact, who I’d already said sorry to last night, and again just now. Pat Neary tried to strong-arm me again and I pushed past him. We had a very minor scuffle in the walkway from the toilet to the bar, and I pulled away saying we were not fighting in the bar, that if he wanted trouble he’d come to the wrong person 46
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and that no way was I going over to apologise to his mate. He said that he was bigger than me and if needs be, he would force me over there. Pissed off now with this guy I had never even set eyes on before, I took my shirt off and said that if he wanted to try to take me on, he was more than welcome to do so but outside. He said “OK, let’s go”, I again went through the ritual of saying “Right, when we go outside, no police, no weapons”, he said he needed neither to take me on. I said “Right, I’ll walk out first down the two flights of steps and you follow me”. I said that at this present time I was only going to knock him down and maybe knock him out cold, but if on the way down he tried to attack me from behind that I would seriously do damage to him; he said “Lead the way”. I walked out and was halfway down the first flight of steps when I felt Pat Neary’s hands on my shoulders. I instinctively turned there and then on the first flight of steps, grabbed Neary’s shirt/jacket whatever it was, smiled at him, and holding onto him I dived down a flight and a half of stairs, out onto the street in front of Bluffs. Neary had landed on his back and I had landed on top of him, we scuffled and a few punches were thrown at each other’s faces, causing no real damage. I had no shirt on and so Neary proceeded to bite into my right elbow down to the bone, and although I felt no pain in my elbow or arm, this bite was to cause me problems later on in the police station. Neary turned his head to the left and his right ear was exposed to me, so without a second thought I clamped my teeth completely over his ear and actually bit it off; his teeth came away from my elbow and he let out a scream. With his mouth open and him still screaming, I took the ear out of my mouth and proceeded to ram it into his mouth and to try to make him eat it, but he spat it out as I 47
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climbed off of him. I picked it up and, standing over him, proceeded to yell a few obscenities at him. I kicked him in the ribs and with blood and sinew pouring from my elbow I walked away from the prone Neary, throwing his ear back at him. I did not look back but headed over to the Elephant and Hind pub (where Neary had wanted to take me), to try to get my elbow sorted out as I knew the landlord there. Why I never went back up to Bluffs I don’t know, but by now Justin and the others had joined me, in fact they’d watched the fight, following me and Neary’s flight down the stairs. At the Elephant and Hind, I spoke to the landlord who I think was called John. I didn’t see Joe 90 or his friends, whom Neary had wanted to take me to see, not that I gave a shit about them anyway. I was fuming; my elbow wasn’t hurting but I was pissed off that a stupid little fracas the night before had led to all this shit. Anyway, John the landlord took me into the back room and tried his best to sort out my elbow; the blood had stopped flowing from the bite but a big chunk of sinew was hanging out of my arm. John and myself got the medical kit from the pub, found the scissors and snipped off all the hanging sinew from my elbow, cleaned the bite and stuck a bandage on it. Weird as it sounds, we then left the pub, walked up town and went for a few beers in a pub called The Sir John Falstaff, which was a local haunt for the Dover police, as it was across the road from their station. Low and behold when we were drinking there, we must have been greeted by at least 10 to 15 police officers who knew us as “local faces”. My elbow that night was very sore but the evening progressed and after a few drinks with the Old Bill, we moved onto other 48
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pubs. I cannot recall when or where I was arrested on suspicion of GBH on Patrick Neary, but I guess it was the next day. I was taken to the police station in Dover and questioned about the fight. Now I have to say that whenever I’ve been arrested for a crime/fight/misdemeanour or whatever and have known that I was guilty then I’ve always admitted it, but on this occasion it was pretty bloody obvious that I was in the frame. When they got me in the station I was put in an ID parade, and I must say that the ID parade nearly made me burst out laughing, because me and the other people they’d brought in who resembled me were lined up against the wall holding our numbers, and I was last in the line. A door opened at the other end of the room and in came Neary, in a fucking wheelchair, with his head bandaged up all over the righthand side. He resembled the elephant man, and to this day how I kept a straight face I do not know, but anyway, Neary was wheeled down the line and when he got to me he looked up, pointed and said “That’s him”. Well, from that moment on I was no longer a free man for three and a half years; I was charged with Grievous Bodily Harm with Intent (section 18) and before Dover Magistrates’ Court I was remanded into custody to Canterbury prison. I’ll go into prison life a little later in this book, but for now I’ll continue with the leadup to the court case. I was on remand for about a year before finally going to Maidstone Crown Court; the year on remand had me going to magistrates’ court several times whilst the police and the Public Prosecution Service made their case against me. Each time in magistrates’ court I applied for bail but was refused on the grounds that I might tamper with witnesses. This is something that I’ve never done and refuted the police allegations to this each time I was in court, in fact on 49
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one occasion prior to going up the court steps from the cells, a police officer I knew came to see me in the cells, and when I asked why they kept refusing me bail, he said that I might interfere with the witnesses. I stated again to him that I had never done this and pointed out that if I wanted to interfere with witnesses, I would contact friends on the outside and have it done whilst I was locked up with an airtight alibi. He thought about this and agreed with me, saying funnily enough that Patrick Neary had gone AWOL (Absent Without Leave); nobody could find him and he had not turned up for a hospital appointment. Neary’s ear had been sewn inside his leg to keep it alive until they could reattach it to his head, but he had not gone back to hospital for this procedure; they just could not find him anywhere. Now his disappearance was nothing sinister, he’d just wanted time away for himself, so I told this police officer to take out his notepad, which he did, I then proceeded to give him the address that Neary was staying at up north. He asked how I knew this and I said “Does it matter, you will find him there”. When they went to that address they sure enough found him and eventually he went back to hospital, but alas they could not reattach or save his ear. I did point out to the officer that having known where Neary was, I could have had people go and have a “chat” with him but I never did. He took this on board but when I went before the magistrate later that morning and applied for bail, the same fucking copper stood up and said they would again ask the court to refuse bail, in case I was to interfere with the witnesses! I was refused bail and I never spoke to the officer again.
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Crown court came and the trial lasted just under a week; my witnesses, family, and friends were there as were Pat Neary’s. Having asked my barrister what exactly GBH with Intent meant, he told me that “with intent” meant I went out to do him harm. Well, I was admitting to fighting him and biting his ear off, but the charge “with intent” really meant that I was the main instigator of the fight, which was totally untrue, so I instructed my barrister that I was pleading not guilty. Now all through the court case, Pat Neary played the “Mr Innocent” card, saying that he did not know me from Adam, did not know about the fight the previous night, had entered Raffles bar for a quiet drink and for no reason I had set upon him, beat him up and bitten his ear off. He stuck to this story throughout the trial, which in the long run was his downfall, which I will explain later. Neary’s witnesses (which included Joe 90) all gave their stories, which highlighted the fight the previous night. They spoke of them and Neary in the Elephant and Hind the next day, and Neary telling them to go and find me and report back to him, and how he would go and sort me out, which is exactly how it all played out, and the judge and jury could see this and could see through Neary’s lies. My evidence and that of my witnesses matched what I have written here and what Neary’s witnesses had said. Now all through the trial I was saying “Yes, I am guilty of the fight the night before; yes I am guilty of fighting Neary in defence and yes, I’m guilty of biting his ear off”. However, I was not guilty of the “With Intent” aspect of the charge, as Neary had clearly come looking for me, with intent to do harm to me. I could see the jury thinking about all this as the judge summed up the case with his words of wisdom; he sent the jury
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away and they returned with their verdict a few hours later: ”Guilty of GBH with Intent”. What complete bastards! This is an extract from the sentencing guidelines for this crime: “The most serious form of assault (short of attempted murder) is Grievous Bodily Harm or Wounding, section 18. The offence with intent carries life imprisonment; the same offence committed without intent, section 18, has a maximum of 5 years”. So I was looking at 5 years to life. I’d known this prior to the trial, and turning to the prison officer on my left, I said “You haven’t got a 5-year diary on you, by chance?”. He smiled but said nothing. I think the judge had the layout of the case down to a T, and had read between the lines on all aspects of it, because, to the shock of me and my barristers, I was handed a sentence of only 3 and a half years; I was simply stunned at how low the sentence was. I was sent down to the cells where my friends and family came and said hello and goodbye. My barrister came to see me and asked, with a smile on his face, if I wished to appeal my sentence, I said “No way!” as I knew I’d be out with parole within a year. I said earlier that Pat Neary’s lies would be his downfall; well, he went to the criminal injuries board for compensation, which based on the scale of his injury he could have been looking at tens of thousands of pounds. However he got absolutely nothing, as the judge had sent word to the injuries board that Neary was more than 50% to blame for both the fight and his injuries. Did I laugh? Of course I did, because justice had been served. I did hear that as well as losing his right ear, Pat Neary is now half blind. Yes, his glasses keep slipping off the right side of his face! Come on, you have to laugh. 52
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On remand, prison had been quite relaxed for me, but I was going back sentenced now and although as a sentenced prisoner I was supposed to have it hard, when I’d been on remand, I’d built up a bit of a rapport and trust with the officers. I was thus able to keep my cleaning job on the landing, which as well as being better paid than some prison jobs, was a bit of a privilege. From the cleaning job I went to a servery job in the kitchens which, together with that of being a gym orderly, is considered to be one of the better prison jobs. Whilst in the kitchen servery I had one of my many prison fights, and it happened to be with a gym orderly, of all people. I did not know who he was at the time but there are perks to some jobs, and extra food at the servery was one that was overlooked by some officers for prisoners in certain jobs, the gym orderlies job being one of them. This guy came along one day and I gave him the usual one scoop of potato but he held his tray there and said “Give me another one of them please”. As I didn’t know him, I said “It’s one scoop per person, move along”. As there was an officer standing behind me I was not going to risk my job by giving someone an extra scoop of potato. Words were exchanged between me and the other guy and he said he would see me later, I said “anytime”. Having forgotten about this incident, I unwittingly went to the gym about a week later; gym time was rare and sometimes your name can be on a list for weeks before you get to go there. Anyway, while queuing at the hatch for a pair of trainers (they resembled the black school pumps you used to have as a kid), I said “Size 11 please”. I then noticed the guy behind the hatch pick up a wooden rounders bat, which he proceeded to swing at my head. It must have registered in my brain at the very last moment that this was the guy from the 53
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servery, because as I ducked the bat hit the hatch door just inches from my head. He tried again to hit me and missed once more; I backed off and, looking around, saw a volleyball pole which holds the net up on one side of the court. I picked this 6foot-something pole up and forced it through the hatch, trying to get at the other guy. A tussle between bat and pole ensued until the gym prison officer came out to find out what was going on, and upon questioning me I just said it was a misunderstanding on shoe sizes and everything was fine. The other guy gave me my pumps and into the gym I went; later in the session the other guy came in and we sort of shook hands and made up. We were friends from then until I left to go to HMP Elmley, which was a new prison opening on the Isle of Sheppey. HMP Elmley was all right for a prison; it was clean and stateof-the-art. I had two different jobs there at two different times; one was in the cookhouse and the other as a gym orderly, which was great as this prison boasted a top-of-the-range gym, a weights room, three tennis courts and an AstroTurf full-sized football pitch; plus of all things a pitch and putt golf course. The football pitch was really great and I played out there each and every time I could; being a good goalkeeper I made it into the prisoners’ football team and even played for the prison officers’ side when they played other teams. That was until someone complained that I was a prisoner and not a prison officer, so I was asked to leave the team. However, playing for the prison team got me noticed by the semi-professional team Sheppey United, who wanted me to play for them in goal, which was not possible as this was a closed prison, but the powers to be within 54
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the prison system got me moved to the open prison across the road from HMP Elmley, which was called Standford Hill Open Prison. From there I was allowed out on a Saturday to play football, provided I came straight back after the game. Yes, really! Whilst there, one of the prisoners organised a charity fete on Sheppey. I was asked if I could contribute, so I wrote to my brother who was in the Falklands. I don’t know how, but he managed to arrange for a couple of large, yellow, search-andrescue helicopters to be on display at the fete for me. Before I left Elmley, I had a fight with a gangster-type prisoner who had been jailed for armed robbery along with his brother, who was also in Elmley. It happened one Saturday afternoon; I was still one of the gym orderlies and had been asked by one of the officers to referee a volleyball match that was going to take place, between the inmates who had come to the gym that afternoon. Anyway, the game was in full swing and everything seemed to be going well but, like all things in prison, looks can be deceptive and what happens when prisoners are matched against each other in these “friendly” games is a macho testosterone thing, where everyone wants to be the top dog, meaning the winner. Well, that’s where the problems started. I was up on the seat doing my referee bit and the two sides were pretty even; the “gangster” prisoner had jumped for a ball that was close to the net and “spiked” the ball downwards across the net to the other side. The ball hit the other side and bounced away; it would have been a scoring point if the guy hitting the ball had not let his hand hit the net at the same time. Instead of giving the point to the gangster, I gave it to the other side. Well, the shit surely hit the fan then, as I was accused of cheating, 55
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being blind, biassed, and a prize wanker to boot. I pointed out that I’d awarded the point to the other side because his hand had hit the net, with him claiming it never did. An argument ensued between me and this guy, which led to him coming over and trying to drag me down from my chair. A scuffle broke out between the two of us and as always with a prison fight, the other prisoners formed a ring around us to watch the outcome. A few punches and kicks were exchanged before the gym officers arrived to split us up and to find out the cause of the disturbance. A heated exchange of words between me and this gangster ensued and in the end the gym officers told me to leave the gym floor and to go back to the changing area where my kiosk was, where all the training shoes were given out. On my way to the kiosk, unbeknownst to me, the gangster guy had also been sent to get changed. Well the inevitable happened; I was stepping over the changing room benches that were bolted to the floor when I heard the other guy charging across the room towards me; I glanced around in his direction and he was nearly upon me; he was leaping from bench to bench to bench in my direction. By now my feet were firmly planted on the floor and he was above me on one of the benches, towering over me. With his pace and speed towards me I grabbed him by his shirt top. As he jumped towards me, it seemed as if I was lifting him from the bench, and in one swift movement I traversed his body over my head and he headed towards the concrete floor head first, and with a sickening thump his head hit the floor and split open. I was now in self-preservation mode and started to punch him in the face and head but he was already out for the count, in fact he was seriously hurt and bleeding very badly. As I stopped hitting him, the gym officers entered the changing room area 56
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from the gym in a rush, as they had obviously seen his intention to get at me, only they were a bit late for the intervention and were only there in time to clear away the mess. They asked me what had happened and I told them that he had come running across the benches towards me to attack me but had slipped on one of the benches, fallen and hit his head on the floor (clumsy bastard). My mate Colin from Dover, who I think was in prison for non-payment of fines or something silly like that, was there as well and he agreed with my version of events. We were sent to my kiosk and told to wait there. I made tea for me and Colin and we sat there waiting to see the outcome of what had happened; after about 15 minutes of activity outside of the kiosk my gangster opponent was wheeled past me and Colin, sitting in a wheelchair with a bloody bandage around his head. I looked at Colin; he and I clinked our teacups together and smiled. One of the gym officers poked his head around the kiosk door and said that he was off to the infirmary and that we were to get our statements/stories right in the time they were away. Well, our statements were taken and the officers seemed OK with what we had said; nothing more was really said about it and we never saw the guy in the wheelchair again, nor did we know where he went. This cannot be said for his older brother who, on hearing what had happened to his younger sibling, was now gunning for me in a big way, and had put the word about that he wanted some serious harm to come my way, that anyone doing this would be rewarded by him. So in reality, I had a minicontract put on me in prison and had to watch my back 24/7; the gym officers were aware of this and suggested that I not come to the gym for the foreseeable future. I rebuffed this suggestion and came into work regardless of the threat; big brother was not 57
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allowed any gym time because of the threat against me, but I still had to be on my toes, as any of the other prisoners could have set upon me with whatever was at hand. Nothing happened for about four days but all of us in the gym were on tenterhooks, so I made a decision. I spoke to the gym officers and asked them to let the big brother and I have a one-on-one in the gym the next day – sort it out man to man – but this idea was dismissed. In the end, big brother was shipped out of Elmley prison to another prison elsewhere and that was the end of the whole issue. I remained at Elmley until my move to Standford Hill open prison.
58
My mate Greg and I were gunned down in the streets of Dover at around 3am on Sunday, August 24th 1997. Greg had also been in the army, the Royal Irish Rangers to be precise. He’d been based in Dover after my regiment had left and had also got out of the army in Dover, where he’d then decided to settle down. Greg and I (“Irish Greg” as he was known and still is) got into many little “episodes” in Dover, and I’m sure that you would find some of them as amusing as we did at the time. Greg and I had our fingers in many pies and had made a bit of a name for ourselves with both the police, local people, and some unsavoury characters from the north of England. About 3 months prior to us getting gunned down, Greg and I would notice these 3 or 4 chaps driving around Dover in a car. They would always drive past us, sound their horn and when we looked around they’d either draw their fingers across their throats in a “cut throat” motion, or would point at us with their fingers in a “shooting gun” motion - miming that we were going to be shot. Well, I’d been threatened by many people and I’m sure Greg had had the same done to him, but 99% of the time these threats led to nothing, so really, we didn’t take these guys seriously. That turned out to be a big mistake! After a couple of months of this we did mention to the police that these guys were driving around Dover threatening us; we even gave them their descriptions and licence plate of the car they were using, but the police told us was that they could do nothing at all unless they took some kind of action against us or something happened. 59
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Basically, we had to get shot at before they could do anything. Well, when we did get shot I’m sure that some of those officers had egg on their faces over our “complaints” about these guys. One afternoon I was approached by a friend of mine called Andy who owned a car and lorry breakdown, recovery and repair service. He told me that one of the guys who’d been following us around wanted to talk with me face-to-face. Andy knew these guys and had been doing some business with them, what business I do not know nor did I want to know. I was a bit sceptical about meeting this guy because of the threats they’d been giving us but a meeting was nevertheless arranged for 7pm that evening in Bluffs wine bar. I told Greg of the meeting and he advised me not to go, but it was a public house with witnesses in so I felt safe, and told him that I would go along and see what the score was. I walked into Bluffs on my own and ended up sitting next to one of the guys from the car; I noticed that also in the bar were Andy and two other guys from the car. So much for a one-on-one meeting! The meeting started off smoothly enough, with no raised voices, and I asked why they were threatening us. He explained that our “business deals” were getting in the way of what they were doing, but Greg and I did not have any deals or scams going on that could possibly tread on their toes, and I told them as much. Heated words were exchanged until I felt a sharp jab in my right rib cage; I looked down to see a pistol in this guy’s hand pointing into my side. He warned me that Greg and I were to back off and take a backseat on whatever we were doing, and they would leave us alone. Shocked at having a gun stuck in my ribs, I told the guy that I’d pass on this information to Greg; he then nodded, pocketed the pistol, and left with his two buddies. Andy came 60
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over and asked if all was OK, I said it was, and he left with them. I spoke to Greg and for the life of us we could not fathom what we were doing to warrant all this attention, so we carried on with what we were doing, and they continued driving around giving us the same threats as before, but we just kept on brushing them off. Yeah, I know, hindsight is indeed a wonderful thing! The night before the Sunday morning shooting, a few of us had decided to go over to Folkestone to a nightclub owned by the legend that was Jimmy Godden. The nightclub was called La Parisienne, located on the Folkestone seafront, and a coach was laid on from the Market Square in Dover to take people over to the nightclub then bring them back again at closing time. I think it was about a fiver return and was cheaper than taking a taxi both ways. The coach would leave Dover at about 10.30pm and then return from Folkestone after the nightclub finished at 2am. I’m not sure exactly who went with our group but Greg and I were there for sure. I also had a very good friend of mine called Neil, who was in the army based in Dover from the Parachute Regiment. He was married to a girl called Amanda and they had a couple of kids who I used to babysit when they wanted some alone time. Anyway, that’s another story. Like I said, there were others there too, but I’m not sure who was who. We got to the nightclub at about 11pm, gained entry then went about drinking and doing our thing. I’m sure that we met up with a few people from Folkestone that we knew, as well as saying hello to all the door staff, who Greg and myself knew very well. Unbeknownst to us at the time, was that the guys who had been driving around and threatening us had followed the coach over 61
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to Folkestone and were watching us all night. We are not sure if any of them came into the nightclub to keep an eye on us, but they were definitely there when we left. During the evening in the club Neil (the Para) had decided he wanted to go back to Dover to be with his wife and kids, so I walked outside with him and got him safely into a taxi. Neil was not pissed by a long way; I’ve seen him drink, and that boy sure can hold his drink. He was just bored and wanted to leave, so we said goodbye and, as football was on in the morning, arranged to meet at his house for the game. Neil and a few other paras played for our local pub team, the Gate. Once Neil had left, I reentered the club and carried on drinking till closing time, after which we boarded the coach and settled down for the trip back to Dover. For some reason as we went down the Capel le Ferne road, I noticed that we’d passed an ambulance parked at a roundabout. Why I noticed this, to this day I do not know, but the same ambulance was to take me to hospital within an hour, and the ambulance staff were to witness the getaway car and gunmen driving away. As the coach came into Dover I got up and made my way to the front, asking the driver if he could drop me off up ahead; he said it wasn’t a problem. Two other guys got out of their seats and came to the front to get off with me; I said goodbye to Greg who was sitting with a few others and said I would catch him later that day in the pub. I got off the bus, first followed by the two other guys, and all three of us crossed the road as the coach drove off. I walked up Approach Road, which leads to the road I lived in, Manor Road. The other two guys continued along Folkestone Road, towards the town. As I got into Approach Road I noticed 62
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a dark car pass me on my left; it got to the end of the road, half turned onto Manor Road and stopped. Two guys got out of the back doors and closed them; both were wearing dark clothes and had their hoodies pulled up; they looked in my direction before walking out of my sight down Manor Road towards my house, and the car drove off in the same direction. Now at 3am this all seemed very strange to me, what with everything that had been happening in the past three months, so with that playing on my mind, and my previous tours with the army in Northern Ireland, my senses were on full alert. I looked behind me and nothing was amiss, so I slowed down my walking and continued along Approach Road to turn into Manor Road. I was maybe 20 metres from the turning when one of the guys poked his head around the corner, looking in my direction. I stopped in my tracks and we looked at each other for what could have only been seconds, but it seemed to be longer. He must have looked around the corner to see where I was, as I’d slowed my pace down. I was right to have sensed danger. In a split second he started to run around the corner, holding a sawn-off shotgun in the air, followed closely by the second guy; both were now in full flight in my direction and screaming out a banshee-type wail. I’m not sure if both had sawn-off shotguns, because I’d already turned and was on my toes heading back down Approach Road. I ran across the road as the first shot rang out, hitting me in the right leg. I buckled a little bit but continued at full speed as the second shot rang out; I couldn’t tell if the second shot had hit me as the adrenalin had now kicked in. I turned into Folkestone Road and sprinted past the two guys from the coach; as I passed them, I shouted “Call the police, I’ve been shot!”. I then headed for a small brick wall and 63
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jumped over it; fuck me, it was about a 10 foot drop the other side and I landed in a heap on the floor. There was no pain at all, but my right trouser leg was bloody and shredded where the shotgun pellets had hit me. Automatically, I took my belt off and made a tourniquet above my right thigh; army training days took over I suppose. Anyway, I sat there for what seemed like ten minutes or more but it was probably less; I was waiting to see if the two guys who chased me were following, but they never did, they’d got back in the car that had by then turned around and had driven off in the direction of Folkestone. Later I found out that they had sped past the ambulance that I’d noticed whilst on the coach. I got back up from the brick wall and peered around the corner to see if anyone was around but I saw no one, not even the two guys from the coach who I’d run past. I noticed that there was a phone box over the road so I decided to hobble over there to call for an ambulance. I was halfway to the call box when I noticed the ambulance from earlier coming down the road towards me; I flagged it down, the driver slid his door open and I yelled “I’ve been shot in my leg!” The next five to ten minutes were a blur as I was put into the back of the ambulance, my trousers were cut away, a drip was put into my arm and the guy in the back went about treating my wounds. As we were on our way to Canterbury hospital, the driver of the ambulance called back to his mate and said “Bloody hell, someone else has been shot in nearby London Road!”. Why I said this I do not know but I said “Oh, that’ll be my mate Greg”, and guess what? It was! The thugs had made good on their promise and had shot us both. My ambulance 64
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made it to Canterbury under “blues and twos” and I was wheeled into the A&E department straight away. As I was being wheeled in (Greg and I still laugh at this), I was laid out on the trolley with my leg bandaged up and a drip in my arm. I looked to my left and saw Greg sitting up in a bed, having his shoulder treated. He’d been shot in the back by a gunman with a pistol and all I could think of saying to Greg was “All right Greg?” to which he replied “Aye, not bad”. Come on, you’ve got to laugh at how ironic that sounds. After treatment, an operation and bed rest, the police arrived to take statements. Greg had stayed on the coach and it had moved on into town to drop everyone else off; he and his young lady had got off the coach at the roundabout at the end of Folkestone Road and they were walking up through the town, blissfully unaware that I’d been shot and that he too, would soon be shot and would end up being taken to Canterbury hospital. Greg and his young lady were walking up the high street and were just about opposite the A1 Taxi office when Greg heard the sound of someone running up behind him. As he was also an exsoldier, the sound of running footsteps at 3am had him on alert straightaway and he’d turned to see where the sound was coming from. Sure enough, he saw a man about 10 feet from him with a handgun pointing in his direction. Now it was obvious to Greg that this guy was not looking for directions to the taxi office nor was he there for a friendly chat; he wanted to shoot Greg and maybe the woman as well. Greg shoved the girl to one side and shouted “Run!”. Greg also turned to run just as the gunman fired and the bullet entered Greg’s shoulder from behind, spinning Greg back to face the gunman, who was now 65
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taking aim for a second shot. Greg froze, waiting for the shot, but it never came because the gun either misfired, or had jammed; either way, as the gunman tried to clear the chamber, Greg was immediately on his toes and ran to the taxi office across the road from where he was shot. The gunman ran off in the direction he’d come from and Greg made it to the taxi office where they called an ambulance and treated his wounds as best they could. When I woke up after being in the operating theatre, I found myself at Canterbury hospital in a private room with my own TV. Greg was on one of the main wards with other patients, and I still smile about it now because he was well pissed off about me having my own room whilst he didn’t. He complained to everyone who would listen, even the police, but his moaning fell on deaf ears. I did say that he could come visit me anytime he wanted, which really did not go down well with him. I didn’t know at the time but there were armed police at the hospital guarding us, although I had my doubts about those who had shot us trying to do so again. I was sure they were long gone back up north; well how wrong was I on that score! As I lay in bed, my right leg bandaged and with a drip in my arm, the doctor told me that the operation was successful in that there was no permanent damage done to my leg, but I would not be walking on it properly (without a cane) for at least a month or so. They’d decided to leave 48 of the shotgun pellets in my leg, because trying to remove them would have caused too much damage to the tissues. To this day, if you run your fingers down my leg, you can still feel the pellets on the bones and see dark shapes just under the skin. 66
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I’m sure if I numbered the pellets I could have a good game of “Dot-to-Dot” with the kids. The police questioned Greg and myself separately about four times each and each session would last a couple of hours. I suppose the questioning went on over 2 or 3 days but there is only so much information you can give and we just seemed to be answering the same questions on each session. I have to admit that I did get annoyed with all the incessant questions. Of course, the police had a job to do but each session was déjà vu. I could not categorically say as to who it was that had shot at me that night, so any I.D. parade was out of the question. Greg and I could only speculate as to who it was that had shot us, but we figured it must be the guys who’d been driving around threatening us over the previous months, and the police already knew who they were. I’m not sure how many people had been pulled in by them for questioning, but I know that when it went to court, two people were charged with attempted murder. I’m not sure how long I was in hospital for, but when I was discharged, I went back home to Manor Road, the area where I’d been shot. This didn’t faze me as I just wanted my leg to heal; by now I had a pronounced limp in my right leg, which was still bandaged, and was now using a wooden cane, which my son Ben had bought and wrapped up for me as a present in the hospital, bless him, the piss-taking git. Getting around was quite painful and slow if I walked or limped anywhere, or expensive if I took a taxi. I walked most places as I was trying to get my leg back into shape as soon as possible.
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Some time after our release from the hospital, the Dover police went into panic mode; they had armed police cars everywhere. Were they worried that we would be shot again? No, not at all, they were worried that a full-blown shoot-out was going to occur, or at least some retaliation shootings were going to happen. Why did they think this? Well, it had nothing to do with my family or background; my brother was a police officer! Yes, you read that correctly, and my sister was an antique dealer. No, what had got the police so hot under the collar was Greg and his family. You see, Greg was from Belfast, Northern Ireland, and his family were still living there. Now the Irish are like the gypsy fraternity, very family orientated, so when you pick on one, you pick on the whole family. Well, one of their own had been gunned down on the streets of Dover, so when a couple of cars loaded with people came across the Irish sea and headed down to the south of England, the Dover police were contacted by the Irish police, to say that they were heading in their direction. I’m not sure if it was just the Dover police who were on alert or whether other agencies were involved, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t more than just the Dover police. Apparently, some people who Greg knew were coming across the water and that got the police very excited and worried indeed. A few days after they came over, Greg was stopped in town by some police officers and questioned in relation to who these guys from Ireland were. He pleaded ignorance and said he did not know anything that had been going on, but what he did know was that they were now back on Irish soil.
68
I’d been out of hospital for I guess about a month and was still using a walking stick, but could get away without it, albeit with a pronounced limp, when Dave and John approached me with a proposition. It had been arranged between John and Dave that they were to supply to a couple, from Manchester I think, with tobacco, fags, and booze from Belgium. This couple I guess were in their late 40’s or early 50’s. The story they related to me was that Dave and John were to go across the channel, buy and pay for all this stuff up front, bring it back through customs, and sell it to this couple from up north. I asked how much money we were talking about and they said about £15,000. They intended to lay out about eight to ten grand, making about five grand when they handed it over to the couple, who would pay the extra to avoid travelling abroad and therefore avoiding the risk of getting caught at customs themselves. The risk was all down to Dave and John. I asked how he was going to get the initial cash to lay out for these goods and explained the risk of losing it all by getting caught at customs. As Baldrick from Blackadder would say, Dave and John had a “cunning plan”. They were not going to go to Belgium and were not going to buy the tobacco, booze and fags, thereby not needing the 8 to 10 grand. I enquired as to how he thought that the couple bringing down fifteen grand for this gear were going to hand over said money, having not seen the goods, and to be honest, I could not see why they were telling me all this if it was such a cunning plan, and they already had it all worked out. Enter Winnie into their plan. Dave explained that when I walked, I 69
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looked like a cripple, so they would not suspect me, to fuck with their heads and would thus lull them into a false sense of security. I would approach the couple at a prearranged place, get in their car and count the cash to check that they had the right amount. They would then ring Dave and John on their phone and pass it to me; I would verify the cash was real and all there. The lads would then drive down with the goods and an exchange in the car park would be carried out. Sounds hunky dory doesn’t it? I questioned that as we had no goods, why would they hand over the cash? This was the cunning plan: the exchange was to be down by the Dover sports centre, in the car park. The couple would be parked up in the car park and I would limp up to them and introduce myself with a false name. I’d tell them that I had come to check if they had the cash and that Dave and John were parked nearby with the goods, ready to exchange. The couple had a Range Rover 4x4 and they were expecting a lot of tobacco, etc. John and Dave were actually nearer than the couple thought; they were parked up on Castle Hill overlooking the car park and could see the 4x4 clearly. John was in the driving seat and Dave watched as I climbed into the 4x4, having his phone in his hand awaiting their call. I was in the passenger seat, the woman in the driving seat, and the guy, her husband I guess, was in the rear of the vehicle. The woman auto-locked the four doors and passed me a bag which was on her lap. Fuck me, there were bundles of cash, all in £100 packs; all used notes, £50s, £20s and £10s; not sure if there were any fivers. I counted out the bundles, there were about 15 to 18 of them, I picked two at random and counted them; yep, both were a grand each. Now, Dave’s plan 70
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was for me to snatch the bag, exit the car and run, or rather shuffle, like hell towards the car park exit. On seeing me run to the car park exit, John would gun the van down to me, and with the back door open I would dive inside with the cash, slam the door, and John would drive off to a prearranged place where we would share the cash, hopefully losing the 4x4 in the process, the owners of which would surely give chase after having just been deprived of all their cash. John knew the streets of Dover but they did not, and we were confident we could lose them. That was the plan at least. After I’d counted the cash, the woman retrieved it from me and it was now back on her lap. She still had the doors locked from her side so I couldn’t get out of the car, and could barely walk anyway having been shot and having 48 shotgun pellets in my leg. Whilst running, I actually looked like a drunk; a shuffling, one-legged crab. The woman got on the phone to Dave, spoke briefly to him then passed the phone to me; it was not on speakerphone which was just as well. I told Dave that the money was all here and more, and that I’d checked two bundles at random and they were the real deal. The reason they’d brought more cash down was in case we had more goods to sell, which I suppose made sense; why do two trips when you can do just the one? Dave asked why I was not out of the car with the cash and running, for fuck’s sake. I could not really say that she had the money on her lap and that the doors were locked, so I made out that the connection to me and Dave was poor. I asked the lady to open the window to see if I could get a better reception; she cranked it open and I clicked the phone off, saying I had lost the signal and passed it back to her. She 71
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redialled and I was back talking to Dave who was still saying “grab the fucking money and run”, I again feigned a poor signal and said I could not hear him, I said “You hold the cash, open my door and I’ll step out and talk to him”. This she did; I got out and stood by the open door, told Dave that the cash was all here and to bring the goods, looked up the hill and could just make out Dave with the phone to his ear, waving. In my ear he was saying “Grab the money and run, for fuck’s sake” or words to that effect; I swear I could see steam coming from his ears. The woman was watching me like a hawk. I went to hand her the phone, saying Dave wanted a word. Now, the husband had been sitting quietly in the back of the 4x4 – I guess she was the boss out of the two of them; I didn’t know if the guy in the rear had any sort of weapon in the back of the car, maybe a shotgun or whatever. It was only then, as I passed the phone to the woman and looked in his direction that it occurred to me he could have a weapon of some kind; “too late now”, I thought. As I passed her the phone her hand released the bag, I grabbed it and she tried to grab it back but the tug of war was won by me and although I saw a couple of bundles fall from the bag, I was away from the 4x4 with the bulk of the cash and heading for the car park exit like two people in a three-legged race, in a sack. As I shuffled to the entrance, I noticed a group of guys on a scaffold watching the events taking place with great interest; this bit of information will become apparent later. I saw Dave and John screech to a halt with the rear door open, and Dave mouthing obscenities to me telling me to run. Later Dave was to tell me that the woman was very quick with the 4x4 and unbeknownst to me, had slammed it into reverse 72
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gear, and as I had dived into the rear of the car she’d just missed running me down. As I lay on the back seat holding the bag of cash to my chest, I heard Dave say “Fucking hell, that was close, drive John drive, lose them!”, and lose them John did. As we drove to our “safe house” (sounds so CIA, doesn’t it?) I took a peek into the bag and was still amazed at all the cash there, so much so that I grabbed two or three of the bundles and stuffed them in the inside of my jacket. It’s surprising how little three grand looks like in bundles, and they didn’t look bulky in my jacket when we got to the house. We shuffled inside; well I did anyway as my right leg was on fire because of the strain I’d put on it, but hey, we had lots of cash and now it was time to share it out. Inside the house Dave, John and I emptied the bundles onto a bed and as we did two guys entered the room and were greeted by Dave and John. They looked pretty mean and I said “Who the fuck are these two guys?”. Dave said it was OK, that they were also from Manchester and had arranged all this deal/no deal escapade. He then went on to say that if it was not for them arranging all this we wouldn’t be standing here now with all this cash, that there were still a good 15 bundles on the bed and that we were splitting it equally five ways. My leg was still on fire as I spoke; I said “No offence to you two guys, nor you Dave and John, but my face is in the frame for this stunt; I don’t know if they had CCTV in that car or even if the council have it in the car park, or if anyone on that scaffold recognised me, so yes, I’m well in the frame and you four are really scot free, nothing ties you to this at all”, and with that I grabbed 4 bundles off the bed – four grand – and said “You can share that lot out between yourselves — are there any problems?”. There were none; I think they realised that if I’d been recognised I 73
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would be pulled in, charged, and taken to court. Of course, I would not have grassed on the other four, so everyone was happy at the deal. Well, I was anyway, with my three grand bonus in my inside pocket. We all went our separate ways; the Manchester lads one way, and me, John and Dave went into town. I had money to burn and went on the piss. I guess I must have blown a few hundred in the bookies and quite a bit on beer in most of the pubs in town, ending up in the Tavern. I saw my mate Pete (he was always there), pulled him to one side and gave him two grand, saying “can you put that in your bank for me?”. Without batting an eyelid he pocketed it after asking how much was there. I told him and he agreed to hold it in his account for me. After a couple more visits to the bookies and a few more beers I got myself a taxi home to the house that Dave and I shared. Dave was not in when I got there; I put the fire and TV on, hung my jacket on the door and laid down on the settee to watch the TV. Well, the warm fire and the alcohol took effect almost immediately and I was asleep and snoring in seconds. I’m not sure how long I was asleep for but I was woken by banging on the front door; now for those of you that know, when you are in a deep, boozed-up sleep, there is nothing that can piss you off more than someone waking you up. Drunken sleep is the best, until you’re woken up or wake up naturally with a blinding headache, a dry mouth like an Arab’s flip flop, and dehydrated. I went to the door, opened it, and there on the doorstep were about seven police officers, all in uniform; the lead officer said “Hello Winnie, does Dave live here?”. I said that he did and that he was not in, they asked if they could come in and see for 74
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themselves; I asked them if they had a warrant, to which they replied that they had not. I then said that they could not come in and they would just have to take my word for it. Actually, I didn’t know if Dave had returned or not, as I’d been in the land of nod; he had not in fact returned and was not in, but the police did not know that. They left and I went back to the sofa and fell asleep, or tried to, but was woken by the same urgent banging on the door. I got back up and went to the door, to see again the same officers standing there. The lead officer said to me “Winnie, you look like and are dressed like a suspect we are looking for in a robbery, so therefore I am arresting you, blah blah blah”, and I was taken away by two officers, whilst the others, now not needing a warrant due to the arrest, went on to search the place. I was questioned at great length as to what my movements were that day. Because I’d been drinking, I told them that I was not sure of my exact movements, but they did involve pubs and betting shops. I was asked if I had been in or around the sports centre or its car park; I said that I had not. They even asked if I’d seen or been in touch with Dave; I said I didn’t think I had, but because of the beer I may have seen him in a pub. They never asked me about John, so I presumed that the two people in the car only knew Dave, and knew my face but not my real name, and didn’t know John. After about three hours of questioning, I decided on getting a solicitor as this was getting tedious, so they sent me back to my cell until my nominated solicitor came. My solicitor at that time was Jeremy Garner, who I called Rockford, relating to the TV private eye James Rockford; he worked for solicitors Stilwell and Hardy in Maison Dieu Road. 75
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Anyway, when he arrived, the detectives continued to question me for about another hour or so and a question they asked me hit me like a train wreck. They asked me if I owned the blue jacket that was hanging on my living room door. I said that I did indeed own that jacket. Had I been wearing it that day? I said that yes, I had. Could I then explain where the money came from that was in the pockets? “Fuck!” I thought. Caught out, bang to rights. One of the detectives left the room and came back with a bag, he held it up and inside it was indeed cash, in this bag being two £20 notes. My mind was racing and working overtime. With a smile on his face the officer said “We found these in your jacket hanging on the door, can you explain where they came from?” Well, fuck me, I had over four grand in that jacket and here they were showing me forty bloody quid, for fuck’s sake. My mind was still racing – had a copper pocketed all but forty quid of the cash? Were they waiting for me to ask about the rest of it and implicate myself in the robbery? I did not have a clue, “Think Winnie, think!”. I said “So £40 – oh right – that must have been my wages from working the door last night in Deal”, which was true, I’d been working over at Albie's night club in Deal with Jonnie Mac, and we got paid 40 quid each. “You can check with him and the club if you want”. They asked “But are these the notes given to you last night from the club?”. I said they must be as that was the jacket I’d worn last night; I said “Fingerprint them if you like, to see if the manager’s prints are on there”. I’m not sure if they did anything with those notes, but I do recall getting them back later, after all charges for the robbery were dropped. My mind was not really on the forty quid though; I was wondering where the other four grand plus were, for fuck’s sake. They also came out with a 76
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revelation that one of the guys from the scaffold may have recognised me and could possibly pick me out of a line-up, also that the two people from the 4x4 were very sure that they could also pick me out from a line-up. At these revelations I was a little apprehensive to say the least, but as nothing was mentioned about CCTV I felt a little easier. I started to think that I could maybe get away with this. It turned out that after the car chase, the 4x4 had gone back to the car park to have a scout around looking for CCTV but could not find any, so they approached the lads on the scaffold to ask if anyone had seen what had happened. Most said that they either didn’t see anything or didn’t want to get involved, but one lad said that he’d seen it all and could pick the man running from the car out of a lineup, if required. Unbeknownst to the police, this chap who was going to pick me from a lineup was, I believe, being paid £1,000 to do that. I found this out only later, when the guy came to me and said that he’d been paid to pick me out, and went on to explain the conversation with the 4x4 owners. The guy they were paying was at the time a good friend of mine, so after further conversation with him, £500 swapped hands (me to him) and it was agreed that he would attend the lineup parade as he was paid to do, but would not pick me out, and he’d be £1,500 better off. I was obviously elated that I was not going to be implicated in this robbery, and that neither was Dave nor John. The 4x4 owners thought, for the price of £1,000, that I would be nailed and they would get their cash back. It was a win-win situation all around; well, all around apart from the 4x4 owners that is.
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Prior to the police lineup (identification parade) Dave, John and I had been meeting up to discuss what was happening to the case. The police had basically ruled them out as suspects and were concentrating on getting me in the frame with the ID parade. I knew that the guy from the scaffold was not going to pick me out, but was worried that the 4x4 owners would surely be able to pick me out, so I voiced my concerns to both Dave and John. Dave, with a glint in his eye and that Welsh twang in his voice, winked at me and said, “Don’t worry big man, I’ve got it all sorted, they won’t turn up at the ID parade”. I was now thinking that with the loss of over fifteen grand, these people were not going to miss the opportunity to pick me out from a lineup, but I was proved wrong. They didn’t turn up for the ID parade; the guy from the scaffold did though, but somehow failed to pick me out — how weird is that?! It turns out that the reason why the 4x4 owners had failed to show up was because in the buildup to the robbery, many phone calls had been made between them and Dave. They’d been discussing the deal, with them ordering all the different types of tobacco, fags and booze they wanted, asking Dave to get it all from Belgium and through customs for them so they could avoid paying duty on it all, and that they would give us X amount of money for the lot. Well Dave, in his infinite wisdom, had recorded them ordering this stuff, had played it back to them over the phone, and politely said that if they did turn up for the ID parade, the tapes would be passed to the police and HM Customs. They didn’t turn up; most probably they were confident and pinning their hopes that their guy from the scaffold would pick me out anyway. How amazing is it that Dave had recorded those conversations! Top man is Dave. 78
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Just prior to going into the ID parade, my solicitor Jeremy (Rockford) asked me if I was at all worried about being picked out. I explained to him (client privilege) that the two from up north were probably going to be a no show, and the one they had paid to pick me out was most probably going to have a lapse of memory that would be convenient to me. Jeremy just shook his head in disbelief. After the fiasco of the ID parade and me not being picked out, the police had no option but to let me go on bail whilst further investigations were made. Further enquiries were made, with the police travelling up to Manchester to speak to the 4x4 owners, but whenever they visited, they were not in; they had changed their phone numbers too, and with that, the investigation stalled and eventually dropped, as it appeared they did not want to continue with any charges. On their visits to their Manchester home, the police did find stacks and stacks of empty boxes of cigarettes and tobacco, which had clearly come though the docks. Obviously they had avoided paying the duty on the contents. This information, no doubt, was passed to HM Customs. I am not sure if anything became of that, and frankly, didn’t care. After the ID parade me, John and Dave met up in a pub and had a few drinks. We were met there by the guy from the scaffold; incredibly enough it turned out that he was a member of the family who would later put a contract out on my life.
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Sam was a Royal Hampshire soldier just like me but I cannot say that when we were in the regiment together we were what I would call friends (that is to say drinking and fighting buddies). Sam was in HQ company and I was in B company, so our paths rarely crossed. I am not sure if he joined before me or left after me; I do know that he was in Germany when I was there with the battalion because I remember seeing him. He had something to do with allowances, train warrants and petrol mileage claims for going home on leave. Sam and I really became friends when I got kicked out of the army in Dover. I met him there; he’d gotten out of the army and stayed in Dover, just as I did. I think Sam stayed because he had a girlfriend there; I stayed because I’d been kicked out, had nowhere to live and was pretty skint, as I only had a month’s wages going into the bank at the end of the month from the army. My dad and sister both lived in Bognor Regis but in separate houses. My sister Kathy was a real character; sharp as a tack, funny and quite fearless. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t have dared mess with her. Kathy had her own problems, being an ex-convict who was twice in the same prison as Myra Hindley. Kathy said that Hindley was really hated in prison and Kathy didn’t mince words with her. Kathy was, allegedly, an antiques thief who had her own police task force after her and knew “mad” Frankie Frazer, Reggie Kray, and some of the Rolling Stones. My brother John was somewhere with the RAF, Hong Kong I think, so staying with him was out of the question. I’d made Dover my home. The regiment was also in Connaught Barracks in Dover, so all my 80
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friends were there. I would end up getting into all sorts of trouble whilst in Dover, both with and without the regiment being there. It was tough no longer being a squaddie in Dover. Demoted to civvie, with but the stroke of a pen. I’m not sure how or where Sam and I first met in Dover nor how we became friends, but we did, and he went on to become the best man at my wedding. If I’m not mistaken one of Sam’s girlfriends knew my future wife, Lynn. But again, I’m not sure. At some stage in my working career in Dover I became a barman and worked in a few pubs. The Lord Nelson was run by a lovely man called Henry, his wife Kate, Frazer and Jason (their sons), and a fuck-off big Rottweiler dog called Rumbo. I also worked in the Dover Tavern, run by an ex-para called John Watson (R.I.P.) and the Elephant and Hind pub in the Market Square, where Sam and I worked with Jim and Carmen, the pub’s landlord and landlady. It was in the Elephant and Hind, known locally as the Ellie, that Sam and I ended up working together behind the bar. Ken Brandy, my best mate from the regiment also worked there; it’s funny because later on Ken was to become the landlord of this pub, and this pub was to be the end of my friendship with Ken, and the contract on my life from a firm in London. Yes, this was to be the turning point of my life. I can tell you that being a bartender can be a crap job at times; very little pay, unsociable hours and pissed-up people who want to fight when drunk and treat you like shit. This being a squaddie town did not help with the pissed-up people and the fighting. The Ellie happened to be next to another pub called The Prince Regent, and this pub was a local haunt for every Dover scallywag, hardman and tough woman, worker, dole 81
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scrounger; yes, you name it, they all frequented the place. You could buy and sell anything and the place always had the local shoplifters popping in to sell their goodies at knockdown prices, making enough cash to get their next score of drugs, get high and go shoplifting again – the cycle continues. Anyway, it was said of the Regent that if the police wanted to find someone they’d go there. That being a civvies’ pub and the Ellie being a squaddies’ pub, there was always going to be friction between the two places. As I was saying, a barman’s wage is low, and Sam and I often looked for ways to make extra cash, but not always in a legally acceptable way. I did get myself another job as a local doorman, in those days called a bouncer. You didn’t need a licence then; you just needed some savvy, look big, mean and ugly and know how to handle yourself in a situation. My days on the doors were about to begin. The landlord of one of the pubs one day remarked to Sam and I about our plight of low wages, and asked if we would be interested in doing a little job for him, for which we would be handsomely paid. Sam and I looked at each other, nodded, and the landlord said he’d talk to us after the shift finished that night. Later on, after the last person had left the pub and headed off to one of the town’s nightclubs, Sam, the landlord and I sat down at a table, each with a drink and the landlord, who I shall call Jim, told us about his money-making job for us. We were to rob his pub. “Are you fucking mad Jim?” I said, Bob sitting with his beer halfway to his mouth. “Say that again”, he said. Jim went on to explain that he and his wife Carmen had been dipping into the pub’s takings bit by bit and owed the company quite a sum of money. The quarterly stocktake was due in about 82
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two weeks – they would surely find out that the money was missing, and Jim and Carmen would be sent packing. With all Jim’s chat about their plight and the foreseeable robbery I could see Carmen getting a bit edgy; I suggested that she go upstairs and we could continue this conversation between us. Carmen didn’t need asking twice; she picked up her drink and disappeared upstairs. For the next couple of hours, a few more beers were consumed, a plan was sort of formulated, and it was decided that Jim was going to be robbed in three days’ time, Saturday night-Sunday morning, and Sam and I were to get £200 each. Jim wanted to give us £150 each but that was not going to happen, it was £200 each or no deal. Sam and I spent the next couple of days discussing the “plan” and getting things like gloves and ski masks. Why I don’t know, because Jim was going to let us in and our prints were all over the pub anyway because we worked there, for fuck’s sake. Gloves and ski masks are used by robbers on the telly, so gloves and ski masks were good enough for Sam and Winnie. Both Sam and I were working Saturday night and everything up to closing time went smoothly; not too many drunks and to our surprise not one fight, which was a good thing because a fight in a pub involved the police and statements etc. and we certainly didn’t need them around. Sam and I cleared the pub and left to walk to the nightclub, leaving Jim and Carmen to lock up. Jim was to stay downstairs and clean the beer lines and Carmen was to go upstairs to sleep, taking two sleeping tablets, having told everyone who would listen in the pub that night that she was feeling unwell with a migraine. Later, Sam and I came back to the pub and Jim let us in through the side door. We immediately 83
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went to work on the gambling machines. We broke open the backs of the machines and emptied out the boxes at the bottom; we then poured the coins into a deep container, there being four machines so this was a lot of coins; we also emptied all the tubes in the machines. Now remember, in those days there were no notes in the machines like there are nowadays; if you work out about £600 a machine times five, that’s a lot of bloody coins. We emptied the pool table and the jukebox too, but that money was small change compared to the machines, nevertheless we opened them more for show. We then asked Jim about the money in the safe, but Jim said that it was really not worth taking as it was next to nothing. Sam and I checked the safe and there were over two grand in there, which we thought he was going to keep for himself, so Sam and I kept it ourselves. Yeah, think again Jim, this is supposed to be a fucking robbery! We then went on to gag and tie up poor old Jim; we did this behind the bar and as I was tying Jim up Sam poured us both a Bacardi and coke, doubles to boot. We had to laugh at the sight of poor Jim tied and gagged, but something didn’t look right; Sam and I looked at each other, I grabbed a bottle of light ale off the shelf and promptly smashed it over Jim’s head, who went out like a light. There was a small cut on his head and blood was flowing from it. Satisfied with the result, we cleaned our drink glasses and left the building via the back door where my car was, placed the cash in the boot and proceeded to drive to Sam’s place to bag up the coins, and I have to say this took about 3 hours plus and made our fingers black from all the coins. Jim was obviously “found” by Carmen, as he had not come up to bed. She alerted the police who arrived with all their forensic people in tow, and did their investigation. Sam and I were questioned 84
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the next day and subsequently a few days later, but they never found the robbers. I think that it was blamed on the local fag and booze runners from up north who frequented Dover at the time; all I know is that Sam and I were in the clear. Funnily enough, this was not the only time Jim was “robbed” as we went through the exact same scenario about 8 months later. Jim had gotten into money difficulties again and asked for our help, so we duly obliged, only the second time Jim said that Carmen did not know about it so it all had to be done quietly. We only managed to get one machine open that evening because Jim was worried that the noise would wake her up. Leaving the other machine was gut wrenching because from our previous visit we knew how much we were leaving behind, but hey-ho, Jim was the boss. Robbery done, Jim bound and gagged (not hit on the head this time, as he said he suffered concussion last time) we left the building and went through the counting process at Sam’s place again. The next day we found out that Carmen was in on the robbery and was awake upstairs all the time; we were pissed off about this and let Jim know, but he just shrugged it off. Again, we were questioned by the police and again the fag runners were blamed; God bless the fag runners from up north! A light-hearted note on the second robbery was that when the guy came to check on the machine that was broken into, he proceeded to collect whatever money was left in that machine, but then went ahead and emptied the other machines too. All the money from the machines was put into a wheelie trolley and the guy took it away to count in order to find out what was missing. Well he came back later that afternoon with his findings, but Jim and Carmen were still being 85
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comforted and questioned by the police and brewery, so Sam and I dealt with the machine guy. He informed us that all the machines had been broken into and that they got away with all the cash apart from about £380, in small denomination coins. Sam and I looked at each other and at this guy who pushed the paperwork forward for us to sign; we knew, as did he, that the other machines had not been touched, so we all looked at each other, he smiled and said that he was the guy who’d checked the machines from the first robbery. We all looked at each other, I signed the paperwork, the three of us shook hands and off he went, no doubt to try and change a large amount of coins into notes. Sam and I were later to have another adventure in the robbery game, but this time it was to be a bingo hall instead of a pub.
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A friend of mine called Alan had many jobs – I suppose you could call him a jack of all trades but master of none. His partner Ann was a good friend of my wife Lynn. Alan had a job at the Four Seasons bingo hall in Dover as a bingo caller and manager. I’m not sure how long he was there for but I suppose it must have been a while, as he’d been able to move up the ranks to become a manager. It was nearing Christmas when Alan approached me to see if I wanted to earn a bit of extra cash. Who in hell ever refused an offer like that? So of course, I asked him what the job entailed. Alan knew of the episodes Sam and I’d had at the pub and suggested that we carry out the same sort of venture at the bingo hall. I approached Sam and he agreed that he could do with the extra cash, so we started to make plans. I say “make plans” with tongue-in-cheek and you’ll find out why later in the story. Alan, Sam, and I got together, funnily enough in the very pub we’d robbed, to make plans for “the big bingo heist”. It was to take place over a weekend, a Saturday night to be exact. Alan had assured us that he did all his banking every Monday, and that week we could expect to get over £900 each. I was happy with that, as were Sam and Alan. Alan had told us to turn up at 7pm on Saturday night and he would have already broken open the machines, sorted the cash out and bagged it all up. All we had to do was turn up, tie and gag him, smack him over the head and leave. The plan sounded simple enough. We arrived at almost seven o’clock but outside the bingo hall was already a queue of about 30 people waiting to go inside for 87
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the evening session, the doors opening at 7.30pm to start at 8pm. “Fuck!” Sam said, “what now?”. I was all for walking away when I spotted Alan at the side of the building; he was beckoning me to come down the alley where the side door was. Sam and I followed Alan down the alley and into the side door, which led to the manager’s office. Inside I could see piles and piles of silverware, well, coins of the realm, at least £3,500, all in coins; I said “What’s this shit, Alan?”. He said “I’ve emptied all the machines and there’s £1,700 in notes on the table”. I pocketed the banknotes and we proceeded to bag up the coins, but we had nothing to put the coins into so Alan found about eight carrier bags. I said “How do you expect us to carry all these coins, Alan?” but Alan assured us that the bags would be fine; yeah right! Well, we bagged up the coins, tied and gagged Alan, who I must say had done a good job of making the place look like it had been ransacked prior to our arrival, and prepared to leave. It seemed appropriate to smash a milk bottle over Alan’s head; he was still conscious, but was bleeding, which looked OK. Sam and I, carrying four bags of coins each, left by the side door and headed back to Sam’s place again to count up the coins and get our fingers dirty. Well, we left the hall with four carrier bags each full of coins, which were straining at the handles with the weight, and we still had to get past the queue of people waiting to get into the bingo hall. Sam and I decided to climb over the wall next door to the hall and avoid the bingo punters at the front. We thought it best to split up, as two guys struggling with their “swag” looked pretty dodgy and it would not be long before Alan would be found, the alarm raised, and the Old Bill would soon be flooding the area. Sam’s place was about two miles away and I had gotten about half way there 88
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when one of my bags split open and coins spewed all over the pavement! Luckily I was in a back street in Dover and it was just getting dark, but I went into panic mode, as here I was, in a dilemma as to whether I should continue onwards to Sam’s, leaving the coins where they were, or to try and salvage something from the mess before me. I looked around for something to put these coins in but couldn’t find anything. I was beginning to panic when I heard someone say, “Hello Winnie, what are you up to?” turning, I saw a mate called Trevor who was a local shoplifter and said “Where have you come from?”. He replied that he lived nearby, and pointed to a house not 10 metres away. I said “Look, my bag’s split so I want you to go and get me a bag from your house” but he started to ask where the cash came from, what I was doing etc. etc. I said “Trevor, for fuck’s sake stop asking questions, go and get me a couple of bags, help me pick these up and I’ll meet you in town later to give you £50”. Trevor got the bags and helped me with the coins, and met me later where I handed him £50 in pound coins. It took Sam and me ages to bag up all the coins and we had a plan to go and see Jim in the pub to see if he needed any change (coins for notes). Jim agreed to exchange our coins but for every £100 he took five, which really was not a bad deal. We got rid of our coins and got notes, and Jim got change for the pub (plus a back hander). Actually, on our way down to the pub the next day to discuss the transaction with Jim, Sam and I had left all the coins bagged up in his flat, which was lucky because we saw about five plain clothes coppers outside all the banks in the Market Square. I jokingly asked one that I knew what he was doing: “Are you in plain clothes?” I joked. He said that they were looking for people with large amounts of coinage trying 89
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to cash them at a bank and I asked why that was. He spoke about the bingo hall being robbed; looking shocked, Sam and I laughed, wished them good luck, and continued to the pub. Phew, thank God we had left the coins in the flat! When Alan had recovered from his ordeal we split the cash three ways. Years later, poor Alan’s demons got the better of him and caused him to take his own life. RIP, Alan.
A talented prison cellmate drew this cartoon of our Four Seasons Bingo Hall caper. 90
Sam ended up spending three and a half years in Maidstone prison for armed robbery at the Abbey National in Dover – the very bank where Sam held his account. I’m afraid I’ll have to admit to having a share of the responsibility for the armed robbery, although Sam was the only one who got arrested and jailed for this crime. How much was I actually to blame? I’ll let you decide. Sam came to me one day and was in a bit of a state — well, more of a panic really; he was in serious debt with the landlord of the Dover Tavern. I cannot remember the landlord’s name, but he was a Londoner who had “connections” up in the Smoke (London). I asked how much he owed him and he said about two and a half thousand. I didn’t go into details with Sam as to what or why he owed this money, as it was between them, but I did ask Sam how he was going to pay the guy. I asked if he wanted his pub “robbed” like we’d done before, but Sam said “no”. I asked when he wanted the cash, and Sam said by the end of the month, which was just over two weeks away. I asked Sam where he planned to get this cash from and without batting an eyelid he said “I’m going to rob the Abbey National”. I laughed at this and said “Yeah, right Sam, you’re no Ronnie Biggs, mate”. Robbing the Abbey National was a huge leap from us knocking over the pubs and the bingo hall, all of them having been “inside” jobs. Sam and I grabbed a pint each and we sat ourselves down in a quiet corner of the pub. He then proceeded to tell me how he 91
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was going to rob the Dover Abbey National bank. Sam knew I had certain things at home that he wished to borrow from me; he wanted my army combat jacket, army boots, gloves, spare crash helmet (at the time I had a motorbike) and a replica 9mm handgun that I had acquired in France. He said he was going to wait for a customer to walk through the door, follow him or her in and hold the pistol to their head, pass a bag to the teller and tell them to fill it with cash (notes) “or the customer gets it”. I think Sam had been watching too many episodes of Starsky and Hutch, but he was adamant that he was serious, so I agreed to lend him the gear to do this, stating that if he got caught that I never gave him the stuff and that he took it from my house without me knowing. That agreed, the next day I gave Sam a black sack containing jacket, boots, gloves, helmet and replica pistol. In the end Sam was to use all these things, even the black fucking sack to carry the money away! Now you have to picture where the Abbey National is in relation to Bluffs wine bar, and Pencester Park toilets, because all these places played a part in “The Great Bank Robbery”. The Abbey National sat on the corner of Cannon and Biggin Streets; across the way from the Abbey was an alleyway which led to the back of Bluffs wine bar and Church St, where the park’s toilets are. Sam and I were sitting in Bluffs a few days later having a beer and the black bag was sitting in between Sam’s legs. Now all Sam was going to do was execute a run of what he intended to do on the day he’d chosen to rob the place. Sam made his move; he left Bluffs with the bag, walked out the front door and across to the toilets in Pencester park; inside the toilets he put on the jacket, boots, gloves and helmet and put the gun 92
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and bag in separate pockets. With the helmet on and visor up he left the toilets; it so happens that the toilets are located on Church Street and next to a car park which has a section for motorbikes, so nobody thought that Sam with his helmet and combat jacket on was out of place, after all there were motorbikes there and this was an “army” town. Sam walked up the alleyway towards the Abbey National and loitered around outside for maybe three or four minutes (I’m guessing this was just to gauge the timings for when he was to do the robbery proper). Anyway, while he was standing there someone walked past him, looked straight into the visor and said “All right Sam, didn’t know you had a bike”. Sam mumbled a reply and walked back down the alleyway, back to the toilets, got changed and rejoined me in the pub. He told me exactly what he had done and what had happened and I said “Are you cancelling it then?”. He said, surprisingly, “No way, it’ll be done in the next couple of days”. Now I’m no Einstein, but if someone had recognised me wearing all that gear together with a crash helmet on, I would have called the whole thing off, or at least put a balaclava on under the helmet. I mean Sam was walking into the Abbey National, his own bank, where he banks every week, knows the tellers there and they know him (America’s dumbest criminals comes to mind, only this was England). Two or three days later I was standing at the bar in Bluffs having a pint (yeah, I know, shock eh?). Anyway I was on my second or third pint when in walked one of my mates; I cannot recall who it was but he said “Winnie, I’ve just seen Sam outside and he said to tell you he’s done it and will meet you in the Tavern”. Choking on my beer 93
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I said “Done what?” he said “I don’t know, he’s just walking up the alley with a black sack over his shoulder”. I left my beer on the bar, sped out the door and raced up the alley towards the Abbey National; I then turned left on Cannon St. towards the Market Square and the Tavern. Glancing at the Abbey National I could see nothing out of place so was a little puzzled; had Sam robbed it or somewhere else I thought. Jogging towards the Market Square I caught up with Sam, who without a care in the world was strolling toward the square with the black sack on his shoulder. I drew level with him and said “Have you just robbed the Abbey?”; he replied “Yep!”. We walked into the Dover Tavern and sat at the Bar; Sam said to me “Get yourself a pint, I’m just going upstairs with the landlord”, I said “I’m skint”, to which Sam reached into the bag, drew out a £20 note, handed it to me and went upstairs with the landlord. I paid for my beer, pocketed the change and sat in the bar waiting for Sam. Whilst I was sitting at the bar (I think I was on my second beer), the pub door burst open and in came two police officers; one of them I recognised and he knew me, he said “All right, Winnie? Have you seen anyone come in here wearing a combat jacket?”, I laughed and said “This is a fucking squaddie pub, there’s always people with combat jackets on”. He said “No, I mean has anyone recently come in dressed like that? Someone wearing one has just robbed the Abbey National”, I said “I’m on my second beer and no one’s come in here, mate”. He thanked me and they left. Now, let me just say that Sam was not wearing the jacket, boots, gloves or helmet when he was walking through town; he must have got changed back at the
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toilets and dumped the stuff, or it was in the bag with the money. Sam came down without the bag as I was finishing my beer, so he bought us both one then I told him about the two coppers who came in. He shrugged it off, handed me £500 in twenties and we clinked glasses, him telling me he would give me my gear back later. We finished our beers and Sam and I went our different ways, saying we’d meet up in the next couple of days. Unbeknownst to Sam and I, the police had also been to all the local pubs in the vicinity of the Abbey National looking for the robber, they even went upstairs to Bluffs wine bar to ask in there. Well, they were met by John, one of the owners. John did not want to discuss anything with a police officer in front of the customers, so asked the officer to walk out with him to the rear fire exit to talk, which they did. John and the officer were standing on the fire exit metal stairway out the back, which led to the back alleyway, and as they were chatting the police officer asked if he had seen anybody wearing a combat jacket, boots, gloves and a crash helmet. John said he had not seen anyone dressed like that which in fact was true because John had not even been in the pub when I was there. Anyway, as John was chatting to the police officer he glanced over the fire exit stairs to the ground and spotted, there, at the base of the stairs, the crash helmet, boots, jacket and gloves; he was unaware that the replica pistol was inside the helmet. Sam had obviously got changed there and not in the toilets as planned. Calmly, John escorted the officer back inside and insisted that he would be in touch if he heard or saw anything, and with that, the officer left. John knew the stuff was mine and sent word around the pubs 95
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for me to get rid of it from where it was, which I subsequently did of course. Some days later, I was summoned to the police station to answer some questions on the robbery of the Abbey National. Well actually I was arrested on suspicion of armed robbery – I think the police call it “helping them with their enquiries”. My arrest coincided with a very important football match I was meant to be playing in, the very same day. I was playing goalkeeper for Bluffs wine bar for the local league title and I was an integral member of the team. Our opposition for that particular game was, oh yes, the local police football team! Bluffs lost 3-1. My arrest at that particular time was certainly “iffy”, to say the least. They arrested Sam the day after the robbery and after a short time in the police station he admitted everything, even telling the police where he had got the replica pistol and all his gear from. Yep, you guessed it — Winnie! Sam had admitted the crime. Well he had to - the poor guy who Sam had held the gun to had recognised him as someone who had an account there, as did the teller, but they couldn’t recall his name. The CCTV photos of Sam’s face with his visor up was to show that there was no mistake as to his identity. The questions started with my relationship to Sam, to which I answered truthfully, obviously omitting the pubs and bingo hall escapades. The police went into detail about the stuff that I’d lent Sam, and I admitted that I had lent him the gun, jacket, boots, helmet and gloves; also that I’d lent them to him because he had asked me for them. They then asked what Sam had said he wanted them for, I said that I didn’t know but I’d guessed that because Sam had done paintball shooting games a few 96
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times that he wanted the stuff for that, with the replica gun firing blanks and not paintballs. They had asked Sam the same question and he had said exactly the same as me; we hadn’t planned this, and had not talked about being questioned by the police. That was a big stroke of luck and another one was about to happen. They questioned me about if I had seen Sam in the Tavern on the afternoon of the robbery, well they knew I was there and that Sam had been in to pay the landlord so I said yes, we had met there. They asked if he’d given me any money to which I replied “No, he did not”; they asked this a couple of times and again I replied “No, he did not give me any money”. They suspended the interview and I went back to my cell. They must have gone back to question Sam because within an hour I was back in the room being questioned again, and again they asked me about the money that Sam had given me but they worded it differently; they said, “Did Sam give you £500?”, I replied “Yes, he did”, and I said this because only Sam and I knew how much he had given me. You have to remember that being questioned in the police station in those days was different from today; in those days it was all done on two cassette tapes, one for you and your solicitor and one for the police, there was no video recording in those days, well not in my interview anyway. They asked me “Why exactly, had Sam given you £500?”; this again was something Sam and I had not discussed if ever we were questioned by the police, so I answered that I had asked Sam to lend me the cash as I needed it, they said that £500 was a lot to ask someone to borrow and I replied that as we were ex-squaddies it was something we all did – lend each other cash – so £500 was not a lot really, and Sam had told the police exactly the same, which was our second 97
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stroke of luck – what a bonus! They asked me one last question, and I still smile at the answer I gave; they asked me “The money you borrowed from Sam, if you had known that the £500 he gave you was from the Abbey National, would you have still taken it?”. With a shocked look on my face, and whilst it was still being taped, I said “Heavens no, officer! That would have been receiving stolen goods, wouldn’t it?”. The officer concluded the interview, turned off the tape and said they would do some paperwork and bail me to return to the station at a later date. On the way to my cell the officer said to me “If we had had you on video tape when you mentioned “receiving stolen goods”, we might have had you; I said “Well you haven’t and I am out of here”. When I did leave the police station, I was not called back for further questioning. Sam went to court and was subsequently jailed for three and a half years, because he admitted the robbery, was remorseful, and had mitigating circumstances.
The Kent Police Football team winning a vital game by arresting the opposition goalkeeper on the day of the game. Most unsportsman-like 98
Whilst I was living at my sister’s house in Bognor Regis I worked several jobs there; for example I was a lifeguard at a caravan park (I’d become a lifeguard whilst in Standford hill open prison). It was a static caravan and holiday park and I did that job for about nine months, covering also of course the summer. I really enjoyed it, and although the money was crap it did have its perks, as a lot of single mums from all over the country used to come with their kids for cheap holidays. Teaching single mums’ kids how to swim — one could say the job had certain perks! Another job I had was working for a local removal firm called JC Carriers. Jim was the owner; not sure what the C stood for but the guys who worked there were a great bunch of lads and although Jim’s wages were crap, the tips we made from the people we moved were pretty good. I’d decided to try to get myself a proper job, so I applied for a position with the Ministry of Defence Guard Service (The MGS). The MGS is a civilian guard service covering military bases throughout the UK and I was to join the MGS at Roussillon barracks in Chichester, which was about 7 miles from Kathy’s house in Bognor. The barracks in Chichester were the home of The Royal Military Police (The Redcaps, MPs). Now, this bit is important to my whole experience with the MOD Guard Service, so please pay attention! Prior to joining the MGS, I had to fill out an application form, and on that application form was a section about a person’s criminal past. Well, my criminal past by then, as you already know, was pretty extensive, with all my prison spells and misdemeanours with the police, etc. The 99
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section on the application form asked if I had any previous convictions; there was a little section there, like on most forms, that went on about “spent” convictions. Well, I classed all my prior convictions as “spent”, as I had done my time in prison, paid all my fines and done all my community service stints, etc. I really thought that all my convictions were “spent”, so I didn’t have to put them down on paper, besides which there were far too many court cases, prison spells, dates and convictions etc. for me to even remember, so I wrote “Yes, I have previous convictions, but cannot remember them all. Please ask me at my interview about them and I will explain to the best of my ability”. Well, when I went for the interview at the barracks, they grilled me on all my past jobs, my lifestyle, hobbies etc. but never even mentioned my criminal past. I thought to myself “if they are not asking, I’m not telling”, so I kept quiet on that score. They asked (on the application form) for two character referees, so I wrote down two, one of whom was Pete Turner. When Pete got the form from the MGS asking about me and my background, he filled it out honestly, and on his paperwork, it asked if he knew if I had any prior criminal convictions. He replied that I did have prior convictions, but did not know the extent of them. The MOD got back both referees’ paperwork, accepted them and promptly gave me the job. I went on the training course for the MOD Guard Service which was one week long in Wethersfield, Essex and completed it on the 22nd Oct, 2004. My time at the barracks was interesting to say the least; I was an ex-criminal, with convictions against me for firearms offences and I now had access to the armoury keys of the battalion of The Royal Military Police (RMP). I was in charge of who came into and out of the barracks, I was free to 100
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walk into confidential and top secret areas within the barracks, and much more. You couldn’t make this shit up! I even ended up playing in goal for the RMP as they had found out that I was a goalkeeper who had indeed played for Dover FC. On one of my night patrols around the inside of the barracks’ walls, I entered a building and found a large number of brand-new fire extinguishers, all in their boxes. What they were doing there I did not know, I guessed that as the battalion were due to move barracks down to Portsmouth they were getting new ones delivered for the new buildings. Well, I made a mental note of where these were and a few days later, came into work in my sister’s boyfriend’s van and promptly loaded 30 of these extinguishers up into the van on one of my patrols. The extinguishers later made their way down to where I sold them as a job lot to some guys on a housing estate building site. I oversaw the landing and taking off of military and civilian helicopters on the base and saw plenty of VIP’s who came and went in these barracks. One famous lady — Dame Vera Lynn — visited a few times; what a lovely lady she was! Also, the deputy prime minister at the time — John Prescott — was also a visitor who popped in occasionally to see his stepson, who was then the commanding officer of the RMP; his name was Lt. Colonel John Watton. I’d been at the barracks about 15 months when another job came up; well, a part-time job, and that was to be a volunteer instructor for the local Army Cadet Force (ACF). “Well”, I thought to myself, “I could get that job and still be with the MGS”. With my military background, I thought that it would suit me down to the ground, so I went ahead and applied for it. 101
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The interview was down near Brighton and went very well; I filled out all their forms and thought that with working for the MGS and my military background I would get the position without any problem. How wrong I was; this job application would lead to my dismissal from the MGS and would lead them to take me to crown court on a charge of “obtaining wages with a pecuniary advantage”; basically, obtaining wages from the MOD Guard Service by fraud! Let me explain. The Army Cadet Force called me back to Brighton for a followup interview and said to me that they had carried out a full criminal records check (CRB) on me. A CRB goes back basically to the first time you ever got in trouble up to your present day, so they had my complete criminal background. They couldn’t employ a person with a criminal record to work with minors, and certainly not someone with such an extensive criminal record, so as you can guess I didn’t get the job. I thought “Oh well, never mind, I’ll just continue working for the MGS”. Well that’s what I thought anyway. It came to light that when I first applied for the MOD guard service, they did do a security criminal check on me, but only did a basic one, which only goes back five years, so when the Army Cadet Force got in touch with the MOD guard service and told them about my criminal past, and questioned why I was employed with the MOD, they said that they would look into it. I was called into the office when I next reported for work and was questioned on my criminal record. I admitted that I had one but did not know dates and charges as there were too many. Well, they had a copy of my full criminal record from the Army Cadet Force, which I looked over and agreed that it looked correct, to which they promptly suspended me from duty on full 102
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pay, whilst they decided what to do with me. I’d been on full paid leave for about 3 months when I was called back into work for a “chat”; well, the “chat” turned into a disciplinary meeting where they had decided to take me to court on the charge of “obtaining wages with a pecuniary advantage”. They told me that I would in the near future hear from the Royal Military Police or their “CID” as to when I was to appear in court. In the meantime, I was to go home, as I was still suspended on full pay. I had an inkling that my time at the MGS may soon come to end and a feeling that I might never get to wear a military uniform again. About a month later I received my charge sheet and was duly given a date to appear in Aldershot Magistrates’ Court in another month’s time, which would make it five months on full pay at about two grand a month. I was a happy little bunny. The day of the court case arrived; I had decided that as this was only a magistrates’ court, I would not require a solicitor; in fact I was being a bit too cock-sure of myself. I’d been to court many times, and my reasoning for not having a solicitor was to hang this out on full pay for as long as possible. For those of you that do not know the court system as well as some others, in a magistrates’ court you are tried by three magistrates who are in front of you and “on the bench”; you are not tried by a jury of twelve people, like in a crown court. I reasoned that I was going to plead not guilty to the charges they were throwing at me, and would then be heading for crown court. Unfortunately for the MOD, they were unaware of this when they charged me and decided on taking me to court. The proceedings started well; the MOD began with their opening statement of how I’d made false claims to get a job with them, in that I never declared my criminal record. They requested me 103
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to stand and asked if I pleaded guilty or not guilty to the charge; I pleaded not guilty, of course. Well, the MOD solicitor looked at me in amazement, as did all the MOD personnel in the court. The lead magistrate was calm and asked if I had a solicitor, I said “no”, as I felt I did not need one. I said I’d like this to continue without one; they said that due to the severity of the charge, I would require one and that if I could not afford one they would give me one on legal aid. Well, I knew this was going to happen when I entered the courtroom; I said I would seek my own solicitor and he would ask the court for legal aid. The lead magistrate made another date, in four weeks’ time, to come back to court with proper representation and adjourned the hearing. We all left court; the MOD did not talk to me, nor I to them; I was still suspended on full pay, so getting another four weeks’ wages wasn’t such a bad outcome. I went to the local army careers office where my ex-Royal Hampshire buddy was - Lional Zeffert, “ZEF” as he was known in the battalion - and we had a catch up about the good old days over a cup of tea. My sister put me in touch with her solicitor, I explained the situation to him and he agreed to represent me at the next hearing. He gained legal aid for my case, which was fine by me, and I mentioned to him that I thought this case would probably make the newspapers and TV. This pleased him, I think. As the court case drew nearer, I reached out to a lady friend of mine, a reporter from the Daily Mirror, Emily Nash. We met up in London and I told her the story about me being employed by the MOD with such an extensive criminal background. I gave her a copy of my criminal record and she said that this would make a great story. I told her that I was due 104
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back in magistrates’ court soon, but that I was going to be taking it to crown court to string the case out so I could squeeze more monthly pay checks from the MOD. She led with a story in the Daily Mirror on the 9th of January, 2006 which read as follows: DAILY MIRROR EXCLUSIVE: GUN THUG GETS JOB AT MILITARY POLICE An army security guard, with past convictions for gun crime and violence, was given keys to the armoury at a barracks, it was revealed last night. Brian Winton, 45, had full access to weapons at the Roussillon base in Chichester, West Sussex - home of the Royal Military Police. He looked after rifles and ammunition used to train up to 200 soldiers for 15 months, before his past was finally discovered. Winton was suspended on full pay after police checked his 10page police record. It revealed 31 court appearances for crimes, including unlawful possession of firearms and actual and grievous bodily harm. The dad of three had also been arrested for rape, but was never charged, and jailed several times for stealing cheque books and credit cards. Winton has been convicted for possession of a nine-millimetre pistol and for firing a sawn-off shotgun in the street after a row with his ex-wife. 105
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He also served three years and six months in prison after biting off a man's ear in a fight in Dover. Winton, from Bognor Regis, West Sussex, was suspended in November after he had applied for a position supervising the Sussex Army Cadet Force. As the job involved working with youngsters, he had to be vetted and his previous offences came to light. The Ministry of Defence is now investigating why his criminal record was not disclosed earlier. Former nightclub doorman Winton left the Royal Hampshire Infantry in 1983 after five years' service; he also worked as a merchant seaman on a Royal Fleet Auxiliary vessel from 1998. He had worked at the RMP Barracks in Chichester since 2003. Despite being a civilian and spending most of his time in the guard rooms, Winton had free access on the base whilst wearing his uniform and badge. It is claimed he oversaw the landing and takeoff of official helicopters, and was present during visits from Deputy Prime Minister John Prescott to stepson Lt. Colonel Paul Watton. Winton said: "They only found out about my record because I applied for a job working with youngsters and at that point they ran thorough police checks. As far as I’m concerned, my convictions are spent and the accusation of rape should not 106
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be on my record. I can't even buy fireworks because of my background but the MoD didn't check any of that. I could have done anything at that base but I don't intend to get into trouble again". An MoD spokesman said yesterday: "There is an investigation into a civilian guard at the Royal Military Police headquarters in Chichester. He has been suspended pending that investigation. While that investigation is ongoing, we cannot comment further." The court case came and everything started off well; the MOD opened up with what they were charging me with, then my solicitor stood up and gave his speech to the bench of three magistrates. The lead magistrate then asked me what my plea to the charge would be and again I stated it would be “not guilty”. The lead magistrate then went into the chat that I had heard so many times before; they go on to tell you (the accused) that they would hear the court case there today, but if you are found guilty of the crime and their sentencing powers were not adequate enough for said crime, they could forward me to crown court for sentencing. They then asked if I would like this court to hear the case or would I like to take it to crown court; my solicitor was not surprised with my reply as I had told him previously what I was going to say. I replied to the lead magistrate that I would like it to be heard at the crown court. Everyone from the MOD side of the court started to chat amongst themselves, and their solicitors said that they were not happy with my choice, as they had expected it to be concluded today; they even suggested to my solicitor to have a word with me, but he told them that his client had made his choice. The 107
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lead magistrate also agreed that it was my choice; they looked up a date for the next crown court case available, and the nearest was about five and a half months away; this totally pissed off the MOD side of the court. I was as happy as Larry as it meant at least six more months’ pay cheques, and my solicitor was happy as he’d be getting paid by the government for my legal aid, which was extended for my crown court case. What made me smile about my solicitor was that he was being paid by the government and the MOD is part of the government, so in fact my employer. The MOD guard service was both paying me to stay at home and paying to take me to court; I was on a winner here! On March 26th 2006, some six months later, we were in Winchester crown court to hear the case; the MOD were there ready with all their witnesses (my bosses) and I also had my witnesses; well, one witness, which was Pete Turner, the man who had supplied my character reference. He and his wife were put up in a hotel, because the courts had said that this could go on for a week; he could also claim for wages from work and food, etc. He was on a winner and in the end got a tidy little sum out of this court case, but in fact he wasn’t even called up as a witness, in fact no witnesses were called to give evidence. I’ll explain. The MOD started their case exactly as they had done in the magistrates’ court, blaming me for not declaring my criminal record and obtaining wages falsely. My barrister — yes, a barrister was appointed to me for this one — stood up and declared that on my application form I had written that I did have a criminal record, that I did not recall the exact details, dates, court cases etc. enough to write them all down, but they 108
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were most welcome to check with the courts, do a background check or ask me questions at my interview. Well, as we now know they did a basic criminal record check on me (a basic check is cheaper than a full one, by the way), but they did not check with the courts, and the crowning point was they never questioned me at my interview. The barrister also pointed out that one of my witnesses who would be called later had stated on his form that he knew I had a criminal record, but not to what extent. Now at this time a jury had been selected but not brought in, as this was all like a preliminary to the main case, and the to-and-froing from the MOD and my barrister on legal points went on till lunchtime, when the judge adjourned and we reconvened at 2pm. We all sat down again and the judge opened by saying that he was going to call and swear in the jury. I beckoned my barrister to come over and suggested that the judge wait, as I thought the MOD was going to withdraw the case; he asked me why and I told him. My barrister stood up and asked the judge to withhold calling the jury in, as his client wanted to put a question to the MOD council. The judge said this was highly irregular, but he agreed to wait with the jury and for me to put my question to the MOD. My barrister asked the MOD if they would have employed me if I had declared all of my previous convictions; they asked the judge for a few moments to discuss this and came back with the answer that yes, they probably would have employed me if I had declared my criminal past. Well, this opened up a can of worms, as the MOD, judge and my barrister started talking a lot of legal stuff, and after about half an hour the MOD decided that they wished to withdraw the charge 109
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against me. Well, you could have knocked me for six! The judge asked me to stand up, then went on to say that all charges against me were dropped and that I was free to leave the court. He thanked me for not letting him call in the jury and thus waste public money, although court costs would be implemented. “Mr Winton you are free to go and this case is closed”, he said and brought his gavel down. He then went on to say that he wished my barrister, the MOD and their council to remain seated because he wanted to express his opinions to them directly. I’d packed up my paperwork and was about to leave, but I asked the judge if I could stay and listen to his opinions; he smiled and said “If you so wish, Mr Winton”, so I sat back down. Well, the judge ripped the MOD and their council all new arses, saying that this case was not properly researched or delivered, their initial handling of my recruitment was shambolic and the whole case was a complete waste of taxpayers’ money, to which the MOD were ordered to pay the whole lot, which according to the TV report ran into thousands, if not tens of thousands of pounds. I was smiling when I left court, as were my barrister and council. Pete Turner and his wife June were in pocket and had had a little hotel break in Winchester. We were all happy; even Emily Nash from the Mirror and the TV crew outside were happy; I never found out who contacted them about the case – honest! After the court case I was still at home a month later and still on full pay, so I decided to have a bit of fun and contact my boss at Roussillon barracks as to when I could go back to work. He said he would contact HR and get back to me. The next day I was called in for an interview; in the interview they said I was more than welcome back to the MGS but I had to fill 110
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out a new application form, which I did, but noticed that on the criminal record declaration part, it now stated that all spent convictions had to be declared. Well, as I now had a copy of my full criminal past, I wrote in the declaration area “PLEASE SEE ATTACHED CRIMINAL RECORD”. With the application form filled out, I was told to go home, that they would get this off to the MOD and they’d be in touch. Three weeks later I received a letter saying that my application for continuation of work with the MGS was unsuccessful, due to my criminal record. I guessed as much but thought that was a sneaky way to sack me. I was paid up to the end of the month, so in total I got about 11 months on suspended full pay, got all my holiday pay and now I am even getting my pension from the MOD Guard Service. Quite a bonus! Apart from the fire extinguishers, another good thing came out of the RMP barracks, and that was Ascension Island driving licences. Let me explain. I’d had many different jobs over the years, one of which was on ships as a merchant seaman. I travelled extensively and did a couple of runs to the Falklands, via Ascension Island. On one trip I took my son to the Ascension Islands and obtained a licence to drive there; I showed it to my brother, who was then a police officer and told him that the driving licence said it was legal for driving there and in the UK; he said “No way, not a chance!”. Well, the licence in question was a piece of light green card with the Ascension Island crest on the front; inside the left part of the card were printed what the different licences were, and on the right side was a piece of paper stapled in with a number on it, for example 014756, and details of the driver and what vehicles 111
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he could drive, etc. These were written in by the officer of the day, without doing a test or seeing a UK licence. My brother checked with the DVLA and his bosses, and although you couldn’t exchange these licences for UK ones, you could drive with them for a year in the UK. Well, I went into production in the RMP offices at night with some shop-bought card and paper, and started printing these licences then selling them to my mates for £50 each; I think I must have sold at least 25. I made a fortune but alas the licence would only last for a year. You could even hire cars with them, and the weird thing with these licences is there was not even a photo of the owner in it, for fuck’s sake. Not sure if they still use these licences in the Ascensions. A footnote to this is that I was declared persona non grata with the Ministry of Defence. I was blacklisted from all positions and jobs within the MOD. That said, three weeks later I rang my brother and said “You’ll never guess where I am!”. He asked me to explain. I told him that I was currently at sea, on a Special Boat Service (SBS) training vessel. I’d secured a position as steward on board, using my seaman’s card. I said to my brother that this would be another great headline for the Daily Mirror. John said “If you do that mate, questions will be asked in the House of Commons with regard to security within the MOD, and you’ll never work again”. It was a fair point, but I was sorely tempted to show how easy it was for a convicted felon to find such work.
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Slightly more sensible work, for me at least, in Antarctica with the British Antarctic Survey team. Calling in at the Falklands always allowed me to renew my FI driving licence!
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Ken Brandy turned out to be the best friend I‘ve ever had in my whole life. However, an incident in later life would tear our friendship apart forever and although it was hard for him, he picked family over friend. I only fell out with him but once, whilst in the British Army in Germany (Buller barracks), and it lasted three months. When we finally made up, neither of us even knew why we’d stopped talking to each other or going around together, as we’d always been inseparable, just like two peas in a pod. Ken originated from St. Lucia and had joined the battalion because his brother Baz Brandy was also in the regiment. I think Ken was originally going to join another regiment, as he was from Nottingham, but had decided on the Royal Hampshire to be with Baz. I met Ken in basic training in Whittington barracks; he was not in my platoon in training; his platoon was either the next to pass out after us or the one after that. I was on guard duty and on patrol, walking around the camp when I first came across Ken. Another guard member and I walked into a barrack block and noticed all the recruits in there, busy laying out their kit on the beds. My platoon (MONS platoon) were nearly at our passing out parade stage, so we’d been through this ritual many times over during the last twelve weeks. Ken was one of two black recruits in the room and I noticed his beret was adorned with the pride of the British Army – the Royal Hampshire cap badge. Here was a fellow Tiger! I introduced myself and began helping him lay out his kit on his “bunk” (bed); the other guard was doing the same to a fellow 114
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member of his regiment. After about 20 minutes of this we said our goodbyes and left; that was the last I saw of Ken until he joined B company in Germany, as a fully-trained soldier of the British Army. That’s what they say when you leave the passing out parade: “You’re a trained soldier now, my lad”, but reality hits home when you join your regiment, because they say to you there “Forget what they told you in training, here in the battalion is where your real training begins”. I took on this new life with gusto (do people actually say that, ffs?). I can’t recall Ken joining the battalion or how we got reacquainted, but when we did, we were inseparable — where one was, you’d find the other — well in most cases anyway. It was only in later life that I found out that Ken had got a young lady pregnant whilst in Lichfield and she went on to have the first of his many children. I can’t recall how many kids Ken ended up fathering but my last tally was well into double figures when he was in Dover. After leaving the army, Ken decided that Dover was for him. He was definitely a ladies’ man; they loved his clean-cut good looks, and in Germany especially his afro haircut was a big hit, so when he joined the company and then the battalion boxing teams with me it was a bit of a shock. We had a great boxing team in Germany and went to the quarter finals of the BOAR (British Army of the Rhine) boxing championships. Ken was a good little boxer, well below my weight of Light Heavy, so his boxing bouts were always with quicker and faster boxers than the heavier boxers I fought; well, that was the theory anyway. I remember Ken winning his last fight for the regiment, by God he had to work hard for it! His opponent was, I believe, better than him, but Ken’s work rate 115
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and mental strength won him the fight. He came out of the ring tired, cut and bruised, looked at himself in the mirror and said right there and then: “Look at this face, that’s it, I’m now quitting boxing”. And there ended Ken’s boxing career in the army, but not his civilian boxing career. Like me, many years later we both joined a Kent boxing club, just down the road from Dover in the town of Deal. We didn’t actually join Deal boxing club with the intention of boxing for them. I know that sounds strange, doesn’t it? A friend from our Dover pub football days, Andy “Muz” McMurray, was a member of that boxing club and knew that Ken and I had boxed in the army, so he suggested that we join the club. Deal boxing club didn’t have that many members, but Ken and I didn’t want to box again. Me, because I couldn’t be arsed to train, as the pubs were always open. Ken, because he didn’t want his good looks to be spoiled again. So we agreed with Muz (I’ll call him Muz Senior, you will see why later) to join the club so we could teach the others the skills that we’d picked up in the army, and to keep ourselves fit. Well, that was the plan anyway. We got on well with the trainer Bob Thompson; I liked Bob as he did a lot for Deal boxing club, free of charge and with little reward. I suppose his reward was us boxers putting his boxing club on the circuit. After a few sessions there, we really got back into the swing of boxing again. For those who have not boxed, I’ll try to explain. Once you step under those ropes and into that ring, you’re your own boss; it’s you and the other guy, your trainer can’t help you outside that ring. Well, until the minutes pass and the bell sounds for you to go back to your corner. OK, your trainer will 116
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sit you down and tell you what a twat you are, give you words of advice, wipe your face and give you a drink of water, then leave you to your own devices again. You have to be fitter, quicker and smarter than your opponent, that is the discipline of training, and in some of our fights we learnt the hard way. “Train hard, fight easy” was trainer Bob’s motto. Deal boxing club became a force to be reckoned with as Ken, Muzz Senior, the other boxers and I all started winning and showing potential. Ken and me, I guess you could say we had a head start on most of our first opponents, as we’d already boxed in the army, but then no one knew this, as we were “novices”, having new boxing cards, which indicated that we were new at the sport. This didn’t last long, and our boxing opponents got tougher and tougher, but we were getting better and better. In fact, within six months of joining the club, I became the Kent heavyweight boxing champion, beating a guy in the final who I’d previously beaten a few months earlier. He was called David Clark, from the Birchington Club, an up-and-coming boxer who until that night was going to turn professional. I really was cocky in that fight and made him out to be a bit of a prat. The fight went the distance but I won on points; he was left bloody, bruised, cut, knackered and a bit of a mess, in fact the fight video shows the look of defeat on his face as he walked to his corner after the third round. My good friend Justin Hutton later went on to fight the same guy at another boxing show which unfortunately ended with Justin losing. I’d told Justin that this guy’s method of fighting was to charge across the ring at the first bell and try to beat and tire you into losing as he’d tried with me in both our previous meetings. I told Justin not to 117
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mix it, to cover up and let him blow out and waste his energy, but like I said earlier, when that bell goes, you and your opponent are alone in there and, sometimes, any friend’s or trainer’s advice you have been given goes out the window; it’s just you and him. Justin tried to mix it with him and gave as good as he got, in fact I think Dave Clark was surprised at how good Justin was, but alas not good enough and the referee and judges gave it to Clark. As I said, I was now the Kent heavyweight champion and on leaving the ring was nearly involved in a fight with one of Clark’s friends who was there watching the fight. He’d been standing with John, one of my supporters. Yep, the guy from Bluffs Wine bar! This guy thought that I’d disrespected Clark by the way I’d boxed him, making a fool of him in the ring. To be fair, I had made him look silly, but I was not going to tell this prat that. The guy wanted John to introduce him to me, which he did; John had warned him not to try and fight me, but he wanted to teach me a lesson like I’d taught his mate Clark. Basically he’d seen how good I was at fighting in the ring and thought I’d be a pushover in a street fight. What’s the matter with some of these people, for fucks sake? After a few moments of trying to dissuade him from going outside with me, with him insisting on doing so, I said to him “Can you wait ten minutes whilst I go get showered and changed?” (I was still in my boxing gear). He said “Why would you want to get changed and ruin your clothes?”, I explained to him that I had no intention of ruining my clothes, as me and my friends were going out for a drink and meal, and that whatever fight he thought he was going to have, or lesson he was going to teach me, was going to 118
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be over before he’d even swung a punch. I explained to him that I’d be back in ten minutes. I asked my friends to please relate to this gentleman a few tales of some of the people who’ve wanted to take me on in a street fight, whilst I went for a shower. When I returned after my shower, the guy had left with his group, not even leaving a forwarding address, flowers or chocolates, the bastard! I do hate it when people make a date with you and don’t turn up. On the upside, I suppose it stopped me from getting locked up in a jail cell for the night, again! Gary Speirs: now this lad was a bloody good boxer who fought for Dover boxing club (the Red Admiral Club) along with Justin. Gary was so good that he made it to the ABA finals but never turned pro; he had all the hallmarks to go all the way, so I’m not sure why he never did but I never asked. Dover and Deal clubs used to go to each other’s gyms to train and spar. I knew Gary very well from Sunday football and one day, when Dover club were over in Deal training for some reason, Gary and I ended up sparring with each other. I was heavier than Gary, so decided to take it easy on him; well, that’s what I thought anyway. We’d sparred two rounds and I guess we were both getting a little tired; the third round Gary had backed me into a corner, I had my guard up and Gary was hitting my arms. I must have left a gap open because Gary unleashed a wicked uppercut that caught me square on the chin. As it landed, Gary backed off and dropped his guard, thinking that the punch would take me to the canvas. The look on his face was classic and this is what he recalled to me later: “Winnie, I saw the gap and saw your chin, I unloaded that punch from the bottom of my boots and caught you square on it; better men than you have 119
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gone down with that punch but all you did was looked at me through your arms, shook your head, shrugged and came towards me ready to continue sparring”. But the sparring session was ended with that punch, by our trainers. Gary continued for months relating as to how astonished he was that I had not gone down with that punch. He knew I was tough and still tells me that with that punch he intended to knock me out, not with malice, but pride I suppose. There are a couple of reasons I’ve mentioned Gary, and both are quite funny. The night with Gary, Frank Bruno and I (yes, Big Frank, the former world champion boxer) was one of these occasions. Gary’s birthday was coming up and the football lads were trying to decide what to do for him; stag-type piss-ups were the norm and would happen anyway, so that was nothing special. Strippers, grot-a-grams, dwarf kiss-a-grams and bungee jumps were all mentioned and dismissed as having been done before, in fact whatever we suggested was dismissed, so in my infinite wisdom I suggested “Hey, let’s get Frank Bruno down to meet Gary, they’re both boxers”. Well, It was instantly dismissed as everyone said there’s no way that I could get Frank Bruno down to meet him. “Leave it with me” I said, full of bravado, thinking to myself “smart move Winnie, you twat”. So the next day I phoned my brother John, relayed my predicament and asked him if he could help me. He too indicated what a twat I was, but that he would see what he could do. Well, the days passed and I kept phoning John to see if there was any news, but his reply was the same: he’d contacted Frank via email and left messages with his agent, but he’d had no reply. The Saturday of Gary’s birthday came, he and the other 120
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lads were out on the piss in town, and I was working on the door at Bluffs. At about 9pm I got a phone call from my brother; he said “Where are you?”, I said “I’m working on the door in Bluffs, why?”. He asked me if Gary Speirs was in town. I said “I guess so, why?”. He said that he’d had a phone call from Frank Bruno and that he was in Dover looking for me. I said “Yeah, all right, fuck off I’m busy”; he said “Don’t hang up! Listen, Frank Bruno really is in town, I’ll get him to ring you”. With that he hung up and about four minutes later the phone ran. Now, bear in mind my brother is a practical joker and can imitate a few voices and, to be fair, Frank’s voice is not hard to copy. I answered the phone to hear what I believed was the voice of Frank Bruno; he said “Is that Winnie? Where are you? I’ve come to see you and Gary Speirs”. After some hesitation I believed it was Frank, so I said “How come you’re here in Dover?”; he said that he was doing a DJ stint at Images nightclub as Dr Frank that night and had received an email from my brother, John. Frank said he’d been in a couple of Dover pubs looking for me. I explained where I was and that Gary was somewhere in town; he said he’d be at Images in about 30 mins and to meet him outside for a chat and photo. I explained that I’d go find Gary and then meet him outside the nightclub, leaving my door job to a friend, and went to find Gary who, when I found him, had drunk quite a few beers and was a little bit merry. I explained the story about Frank and that he wanted to meet us at Images, so we set off to meet Gary’s hero. On arriving at the door to Images I said my hellos to the door staff; I knew them all as I’d worked on Images’ doors many times before. Black Pat was head doorman and always wore a 121
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white suit instead of the usual black suit (he was called “Black Pat” because he came from either Africa, Jamaica or the Caribbean). Anyway, Black Pat was at the door; he came out and I spoke to him, saying that me and Gary had come to see Frank Bruno. Now for some reason, Pat always seemed to have a chip on his shoulder with me and I wasn’t sure why; he respected the way I handled trouble on the doors and I suppose was a fearful that one day I would take his job as head doorman at Images, which as it turned out was the furthest thing from my mind. Anyway, Pat told us that Frank was indeed coming tonight and we would have to join the queue for a photo and autograph, like everyone else in the club. I tried to explain that Frank had called me to request us to come and see him, but Pat was not believing a word of what I was saying, and upon seeing Frank’s car arrive, Pat pushed me to one side and went to open the car door for him. Me and Gary tried to move forward, but were told by Pat and the door staff to stand back until Frank had entered the club, so we did. Frank towered over Black Pat and shook his hand, but seemed preoccupied, looking over Pat’s head at the crowd outside the nightclub. I caught Frank’s eye over the crowd, put my hand up and to my surprise he shouted “Winnie! Is Gary there?”. I pointed to Gary and he beckoned us both over, so we made our way through the door staff and past Pat, who I could tell was not a happy bunny at having his thunder taken away; he was like a baby who’d lost his rattle. I shook Frank’s hand and introduced Frank to Gary; Frank wished him a happy birthday and asked if we had a camera for a photo with him. With that, Pat butted in and told Frank that they had an official photographer inside to take photos, but Frank wanted us to have our own personal one with him, so I 122
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said I would go and get one from somewhere. Pat, being rebuffed again, lost a second rattle from his pram. Frank and Gary were getting on great, as Gary had a great background knowledge of all Frank’s fights, and was explaining to Frank about how he remembered his first amateur fights. They were chatting away so well that Pat was almost forgotten, but he took command again and insisted that Frank go inside. Pat, trying to regain some power, told me and Gary to go and queue with the others, that we could see Frank later inside. Frank piped up saying “Winnie, go and get the camera, come back with Gary and we’ll get that birthday photo done. Oh and Gary, let’s chat more about our boxing”. Gary, pleased as punch in his slightly drunken state, smiled and nodded. As we went to leave to find a camera, Frank turned to Pat and declared that Winnie and Gary were his guests for the night. Well, if a dark cloud formed in front of Pat’s eyes in rage I did not see it, but could certainly sense it. I turned, looked at Pat, smiled at him with a thumbs up and was away to find a camera. I popped into a couple of pubs, asking landlords for a camera, and eventually got one from the Nelson pub. Henry Herring lent me his camera which looked fairly new — he no doubt had “acquired” it from one of the many shoplifters that used to trade their knocked-off goods in the pub. Henry’s rule in the pub was that no shoplifters were to sell their goods there unless he’d had first pick; that said, with camera in hand we made our way back to the nightclub. The queue had gone down, the door staff were back in their positions, and Black Pat was nowhere to be seen — obviously inside with Big Frank trying to regain his composure. Me and Gary went to the front and, being Frank’s 123
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guests, were allowed in, but I was told that Pat was not happy with me. I should try to keep a low profile and not steal his thunder; I nodded and walked in but thought “fuck him” and smiled to myself. Inside there was a long queue leading up to Frank, a photographer, a door man and of course Black Pat in his white suit. Upon seeing Gary and me (I’m 6 foot 3, so head and shoulders over everyone else), Pat pointed to the back of the queue which, acknowledging him, we joined and waited our turn. After a few minutes Gary started to get impatient, stating that we were Frank’s guests and that we shouldn’t have to queue. I said that to keep Pat on friendly terms we should just wait there like everyone else. Now, I already explained that I am head and shoulders over everyone else in the queue. Well, Frank looks at the queue, spots me and shouts “Winnie, Gary, come up to the front!” which we did, and on the way up I avoided eye contact with Pat, but boy could I feel that contact on the back of my head! Frank got Gary and I together and we handed the camera to the photographer, who took 3 or 4 pictures for us; Frank had signed photos he was giving out; he wrote his address on the back of one and handed it to me, telling me to send him the photo and he would sign it for us. He told us he would catch up with us later after his DJ stint on stage; we went to the bar and got ourselves a drink or two and for some reason we never got to see Frank again that evening. I think that Pat had made it clear we were not wanted around him or Frank anymore that night. I got the photos developed, sent them off to Frank, he signed them and sent them back to me. Gary still has one of the photos in his home today. I was later to repay Frank’s gesture at meeting us by getting him a day out and meal on an RFA ship off the coast of Southampton. 124
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Gary Spiers and I having our moment with the great Frank Bruno. A true gent When I was “asked” to leave the army, my regiment was still in Dover and would be for quite a while. I was no longer a soldier, but trying to blend in and make new friends with the Dover civilians was hard, because they still classed me as a squaddie and this ended up with me having quite a few fights with the locals. I can honestly say that of all the genuine fights that I’ve had, I’ve never been the instigator. I’ve certainly finished plenty of them, but have never gone out actually looking for a fight. I was speaking to my good mate Clive Solly on the phone the other day and he had been in conversation with a couple of lads from the old days. They asked Clive about me and how I was; he’d relayed that I was OK and they remarked about all the 125
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fights that I’d had during my time in Dover. Clive had said he had never seen me start a fight, but had seen me finish a few. Well, the couple of fights I had just after my exit from the army happened to be with two of the hardmen of Dover at the time. One of the guys later became a very good friend of mine: Billy “Scouse” (I never did know his second name), he did of course, come from Liverpool. The second guy’s name I cannot recall; needless to say I beat them both, which in hindsight was not a good idea. My fights, or fighting, I have always classed as something like the Wild West; by that I mean that if a new cowboy comes into town and ends up shooting the fastest shot in town, then everyone wants to draw a gun on the new guy. Well, I’d beaten up two good fighters and word had gotten around that I was “hard” and could handle myself. This I guess was true in a sense. My way of putting it is this: I was just out the army, was a battalion boxer and in good shape, as fit as I could be; I’d been in fights before and seen a few whilst in the army, and one thing I do know is that when someone gets knocked down, 9 times out of 10 the guy standing will continue to punch, kick and do damage to the guy on the ground, even if that guy is out cold. I never wanted to be that guy on the ground. I knew my own strengths and limits and always fought fair, and if a guy went down, I would never continue to beat or punch him and would never “put the boot in”. I was a 23-year-old lad, fresh out of the army and by God, did I look young and timid! I didn’t look hard at all, nor look like I could handle myself in a scrap, and after the fights I’d had with the two Dover lads, people came out of the woodwork to check out the new “tough guy”. Well, when these people came 126
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looking for me they would always find me in one of the pubs. I’d be pointed out to them and they would invariably say, “What, him?” and come and ask me if I was the Winnie in question. I’d say yes and then it would always be along the lines of “You don’t look that hard, I could take you, me and you outside now”, etc. My reply was always the same, “Look, yes I am Winnie, you’re right, I don’t look hard and don’t profess to be, and no, I don’t want to go outside and fight with you”. No doubt this spiel of mine really should have been changed, because the guys who wanted to fight “the new guy” thought that I was backing down and was scared of them. But far from it, I didn’t want to fight because I knew what I could do, and really didn’t need the shit that went with it. The more that I said I didn’t want to fight, the more these guys would persist in wanting to take their shot with me. By now, in most cases, an audience would have gathered to see how things were going to pan out. I could have written the results of my fights on a beer mat but things never got to that stage; in the end I’d get pissed off, and these are the words I used to say to those I fought: “OK, me and you outside, but no one else is to join in, no weapons, no police, and no one stops the fight until one of us says he’s had enough”. With the rules set out, I would also add that only the winner reenters the pub. That agreed, I’d say to the barman “Hold my beer, I’ll be right back”. Cocky? Yes, but honest. I’d go outside and tell the other guy to take the first swing, which they would do, but after two or three punches from me, the guy would go down. I’d then stop and if he was unconscious I’d put him in the recovery position, clean him up and go back into the pub. 127
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Most guys I beat got up and went on their way, never to come back for a second go. Some, on the other hand, unfortunately did not concede defeat, went away thinking I’d got a lucky punch in and then wanted a rematch. Anyway, back to Billy Scouse. When I fought him, I took him back into the Lord Nelson, cleaned him up, put him in a taxi and paid his fare home. He told me later that he woke in the morning at home battered and bruised with no idea what had happened to him. A few days later he strolled back into the Nelson and asked anyone he could what had happened. It was explained to him what had occurred and how he had got home. I later came into the Nelson and Billy was there; he came straight over to me, shook my hand and said that of all the people that had beaten him up, I was the only one to have cleaned him up and got him home. This made us both laugh and we became friends from then on. As far as the fights that continued after I’d left the army are concerned, 99% of them all went the same way: face-to-face arguing “You think you're hard?”, “No I’m not”, “Get outside”, “No”, and then the fights, like I said. My rules were “No police”, but some of the people who I fought ran with their tails between their legs straight to the police and made a complaint. I’d either get a slap on the wrist or go to court for fighting in a public place, which either resulted in a fine on most occasions, or community service. These skirmishes with the law pissed me off, because I didn’t think I was in the wrong; it was they who came looking for a fight, but in the end they got one and lost. Grow up, you pussies! “No police” means no police! The Battalion had its fair share of fights with the civvies in Dover and a couple of them spring to mind in particular. One 128
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was in the Market Square and went on for quite a while, leading into a running battle up Castle Street. I think the civvies won that battle as up Castle Street was the way back to our barracks. Dave “Pepy” Petman was a guy I’d had a fight with when I’d just left the army. We became friends after the fight (and court case) and have been friends ever since. Dave used to work on the fair every time it came to Dover. Whenever the fair was in town, the fairground “pikies” would either fight with the locals or the army. When I came across Pepy, it was in the Battle of Castle Street; I was eating a bag of chips outside the chippy with a couple of my army buddies, when four fairground workers came out. A few words were exchanged between the two groups, but nothing too serious — a “handbags at 30 paces” type of incident. As they turned to leave, something was said by one of my friends to the departing fairground workers and they turned then started coming at us. This was a good four-on-four fight, so we squared up to them and as we did, about seven or eight more fairground workers came running around the corner towards us. The four of us stood our ground and threw a few punches. I happened to be squared up against this big lad who I now know as Pepy; we traded punches and in the end, vastly outnumbered, the four of us decided to hightail it towards the barracks and legged it up Castle Street, closely followed by the fairground workers. We made it to the junction at the top of Castle Street and there I saw a police car sitting in the middle of the street; they’d seen all that had occurred and I thought “salvation!”. I stopped to explain to the cops that these guys were chasing us but I was manhandled down by two officers onto the bonnet of their patrol car. As they held me down, the fairground guys arrived and Pepy continued to punch me in the 129
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face, as I was held face down on the police on the car bonnet! One of the officers actually said to Pepy “Stop hitting him now Dave, we’ve got him banged up for the night”. I was taken to the station, booked, made a statement, and was released to appear in court at a later date. Unbeknownst to me, so was Pepy. We appeared in court and before going in had made up some story, to convince the magistrates that we were friends, had just had a quarrel and had since made up. They accepted our story. We were fined, went out for a beer, and we’ve been friends ever since. I mentioned earlier about an incident where I’d been accused of a crime that I can categorically say I was innocent of. There was evidence of my innocence, and more importantly no evidence of it happening. There will be a few people reading this, only a few mind, who refuse to believe that this is the case. That’s fine with me. Because of this incident though, there was always someone involved who wanted to take a cheap shot at me, either verbally, or physically.
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To protect the identity of this family and to minimise any threats or abuse to my own family and friends, I’ve changed the family name to “Grey” and the first names of the two women to Sarah and Susan (Susan’s boyfriend at the time I’ve called Simon. Sarah’s father I’ll call Steve Grey). Ken and Sarah were now running the Elephant and Hind pub. I’d worked for them on a few occasions over at the Oddfellows in Folkestone, and again they asked me to help out at the “Ellie”. Ken and I had worked many times as barmen together, so we knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses. I’d helped the family move into the pub, decorate, do deliveries, as well as being behind the bar, for which I was paid. The only thing I did not do was live there, however that was to change when Ken and Sarah asked if I would run it for a week whilst they took a holiday. It was not a holiday in the sense of going abroad; they just wanted, and needed, a break from the pub for a while, so asked if I would run it. It wasn’t hard work so I agreed, and Ken showed me how to run the CCTV by changing the tapes over every morning and dating them. I think they were then kept for two weeks before being reused by taping over the previous recordings. Ken also showed me how to deal with the takings of the day and how to correctly balance the tills so that a fresh till float was available for the staff the next day. I had everything under control and if I needed advice, Ken was but a phone call away. I’m not sure how many days I’d been working on my own at the pub, but Sunday morning came and I went inside, changed the video tapes, got the tills ready for the staff 131
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at midday and left to play Sunday football. Ken was playing that day and Sarah was going to open up the pub at 12:00, then meet Ken after the game up at The Bull pub. The game was over and everyone headed to The Bull. Sarah and Ken were there, as was I and the rest of the team. Normally after a Sunday game the lads would down plenty of alcoholic drinks, from beers and lagers to spirits and shots, sometimes playing a game or two of cards (invariably poker or brag) with what we deemed “minimal stakes”. I think it got to about five or six in the evening when Ken asked if I wanted another beer; I said no, as I wanted to be sober-ish to lock up the Ellie. I think it surprised both Ken and Sarah that I was leaving relatively sober in order to lock up their pub at 10:30, but I wanted to show that I was acting responsibly with regards to the trust they’d placed in me. I said my goodbyes to them and whoever was still left in the pub; I remember the card school still going and no doubt Chalkie was again winning; I must admit he liked his cards and was pretty good at them. I got myself a taxi down to the Market Square and to the Ellie. I got there between eight and nine; it wasn’t busy so only two barmaids were on duty: Susan and my friend Curly Thomas’ daughter, who for the life of me I cannot recall the name. There was a couple – male and female — sitting at a table with drinks, and there were three or four “northerners” who’d been living in Dover for a while, doing the “fags and booze” runs to France and Belgium. These guys were also dabbling with drugs, and to me it looked as if they were on something, as they were quite loud and drinking plenty. I got myself a drink and asked the girls if they wanted one each, which I think they did but I am 132
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not 100% sure, as they already had drinks in front of them. I’m all for letting staff drink as long as they are not pissed, and the girls seemed OK and not at all drunk. The evening went on and there was friendly banter between me, the girls and the northerners, who put their hands in their pockets and bought us all drinks. They had cash to burn, as they’d just come back from “overseas”. If they had money to burn, I was happy to accept it. Closing time came and went; the northerners bought one last round each for all of us and by the time they’d left, I guess it was just after 11:00. Curly’s daughter either got a lift home or a taxi, I’m not sure which. Susan was in no hurry and sat at the bar whilst I locked up the pub and turned down most of the lights. All the glasses had been previously cleared away by the girls, so there was nothing to do, apart from Susan getting a taxi and for me to get to bed, which at that time was at the Seaman’s Mission in Snargate Street, about 600m away. I asked Susan if she was in a hurry; she said she wasn’t so I poured myself a drink and got her one. I was by now feeling a bit tipsy and although Susan looked to be holding her own, I could see she was a little more than tipsy. I sat next to her at the bar and we were talking about anything and everything. Her boyfriend at the time was a guy called Simon, who I’d worked with previously on road construction, in fact I taught him how to build and screen drains. Simon, it turned out, was in prison; for what, I don’t know but was due out in the next month or so. He was not in for long, so it was probably for fighting or something to do with fines. I’m not sure how or why it happened but Susan and I started kissing at the bar. Maybe it was the talking about Simon, how she missed him, 133
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I was a shoulder to lean on, who knows? Anyway, we were kissing and I remember asking if she wanted to dance; as the background music was still on, she said yes and we got up to slow dance. But as we danced and kissed, Susan’s legs seemed to give way. I tried to hold her up but she became a dead weight. I lowered her to the floor and sat with her holding her asking if she was OK; she said she was fine and just needed to catch her breath; we tried to get back up but her legs were not holding her so we stayed on the floor for a bit. We kissed and fondled each other on the floor, her hand on my zip and mine down her knickers. We were both grownups and continued this way until she moved her mouth down to my penis and proceeded to give me oral sex, which was a very nice surprise. This act never got completed because either I stopped it, or she stopped it for fear of being sick over me, or for some other reason; I really don’t know, but we composed ourselves and managed to stand up. All of this happened whilst being oblivious to the fact it was being recorded on CCTV. We started to head back to the bar when again, Susan’s legs started to give way. I helped her to stand and at some stage we were both back on our stools. I finished my beer and Susan either finished hers or I threw it away. After a while we were ready to make a move home; I asked her, “Shall I get you a taxi or do you fancy coming to my room at the Seaman’s Mission?”. Susan said that she would come to mine, but needed to be back home in the morning to get to her kids. With that, we locked up the pub’s side door and walked to the mission. The police later had the videos of Susan and I both walking unaided from the pub to the mission. We got to the mission in about five minutes; it was a cool clear night 134
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and not a soul was about; well, it was Sunday night/Monday morning by now. We got up the first floor to my room and once inside Susan went to the toilet whilst I undressed; she came back, got undressed and got into bed with me. Now, these rooms are small, and I mean small, as in single beds, so with two people in a single bed, it’s a tight fit, especially with me at over 6ft tall; it was a good job Susan was only a little over 5ft. We were both naked and snuggled up as best we could in the confined space. We continued where we’d left off on the pub floor; oral sex on me followed by me returning the favour on her. I moved up and we tried to have sex in the missionary position; this turned out to be impossible due to the difference in our heights, the confines of the bed, and the fact that we were boozed up. After some fumbled attempts I suggested she get on top of me; I laid on my back and Susan climbed on top, and we had consensual sex. I’m not even sure if either of us came, but I know we fell asleep in the spoon position, her facing my bedroom wall and my cold arse sticking out of the side of the duvet. I’m not sure what time the alarm went off, or even if one did, but we both woke up and some point, Susan looked over at me and said “Fucking hell Winnie, how did I get here?”. I told her that we’d both walked here after kissing in the pub. She seemed to accept this and we got up, got dressed and made our way back to the pub. On entering the pub, I asked her if she wanted a coffee, she said yes, so I made us both a drink; whilst I was doing the tills for that day the cleaner came in and was a little surprised to see Susan there but said nothing and carried on with her duties. Susan asked me to get her a taxi home; I said “No problem”, and ordered one straight away. I asked Susan if 135
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she wanted her wages from last night and she said she did and I gave her an extra fiver for the taxi. The taxi arrived and I took Susan to the pub door; we exchanged a quick peck on the lips, said that we would catch up later, and off she went. I finished the tills whilst the cleaner continued to clean, I then went upstairs to put the money in the safe and take out the video from the last 24 hours of the pub cameras. I timed and dated it and put it in the rack along with the others, took a new video, slotted it into the machine and pressed “record”. That was me done until opening time. That Monday morning I believe, Ken and Sarah were due to take back over from me but I could be wrong on that score; anyway, at about 11am, just after opening time, Ken came into the pub. Ken always looked good, no matter what he wore; he always said my dress sense was shit and I had to agree with him. He looked dapper, if a little hung over; I enquired “Late one, was it?”. He replied with a grunt, followed by him pointing to a coffee cup, which I got for him. Over tea and coffee, we discussed the night’s events, him telling me about the goings on at The Bull and me telling him about the evening and night I’d had, followed by “Guess who I shagged last night?”. He offered a few names but I said “Nope”; he gave up and I said “Susan”, he said “What, Sarah’s Susan? Simon’s Susan?”. I said “Yes, her!”; he went on to say “Bollocks, it never happened”, I said “If you don’t believe me, she’s on last night’s video giving me a blowjob before we went back to the mission”. I said she’d left there earlier that morning. Now, I didn’t know if Susan and I had been caught on camera, because I hadn’t checked it out. I’d just tagged it and replaced it, but everything that happened 136
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between Susan and I, from the time I arrived at the pub to the time we both left to go to the mission, was captured on CCTV. How do I know that? Because the police told me so. To this date I’ve never seen the video, but Ken and Sarah have seen it, along with however many of the family they showed it to, and of course the police, and more importantly the CPS (Crown Prosecution Service). I think that the family still have it somewhere as it was returned to Ken and Sarah, it being their property. A day or two later when I came into the pub to work, Sarah blanked me, and Ken pulled me to one side and said that I was no longer working or welcome in the pub. “What? Why?”, I asked. He proceeded to tell me that Susan and Sarah had been to the police station and that Susan was pressing charges against me. I asked “What charges?”. “Rape”, he said. Thinking this was a squaddie wind up, I laughed and said something like “Yeah, right, good one” and went to take my jacket off. Sarah’s stare and Ken’s hand on my arm made me stop in my tracks. “You’re serious, aren’t you Ken?”; “Yes”, he said, and went on to say that because Susan could not recall anything of that night and Sarah, Susan and himself having checked out the video, had come to the assumption that I had “date raped” Susan. How they came to that conclusion I had no clue, but I was no longer welcome in the pub, that was definite. Ken did say to me later, and also pointed out to others, that the video showed nothing of any significance apart from Susan giving me a blowjob and not being forced to do so in any way. I left the pub and I think I went round to the Tavern to get a pint, to think this predicament over big time. I had to admit, being labelled a rapist, even if it 137
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was a joke, was not fucking funny and I was not a happy bunny, but there was a side of me that said “Don’t worry Winnie, this was consensual sex, you’ve nothing to worry about” and as for “date rape”— bollocks! I spoke to a lot of people that day and I think that I told them all what Ken had told me and what Susan was accusing me of. From that moment on until now, I think that 95% of my friends could not and would not believe it, and stuck by me. Five per cent thought I was guilty. From the moment people heard what was going on, I was treated like a leper by that five percent. I was spat at in the streets and in pubs; shunned and called a rapist. I can tell you it was not a nice thing whatsoever and the real friends who stuck by me were also targeted for their association with me; some of them were also targeted with abuse. My ex-wife Lynn and the kids came under the most pressure. Yes, the cowards that the Greys and their friends were – those who believed Susan’s story — were to target my friends, their families, my ex and our kids. They never came to see me, ask me, or confront me until much, much later. They allowed others to do their dirty work. A couple of days later I was approached by two plain-clothes police officers from CID, in the Market Square, Dover. I knew both officers from previous run-ins. “Hello Winnie, can we have a word?” one of them said. I said yes and sat down at a table – outside the Elephant and Hind as it happened – tables that Ken and Sarah owned. I said, “I suppose this is about the alleged rape of Susan Grey, is it?”; they said it was and asked that I come to the station with them to answer their questions. I said “No problem” and they then said “OK, we have to caution 138
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you but we won’t cuff you, if you agree to come quietly”. I said I had nothing to hide or run from, so they cautioned me: “Brian Winton you are being arrested on suspicion of the rape of Susan Grey”. They asked if I required a solicitor and I said no, as I’d done nothing wrong. I never had one then, nor at any stage of the allegation did I seek any advice from a solicitor. They took my room keys for the mission, and some officers went to search it, whilst I was taken to the station for questioning. I did wonder, as I was led away, if Ken and Sarah had been looking out the pub window as the officers and I talked and if, when I was led away to the car to be taken to the station, they were a little upset that I was not handcuffed. I could imagine Sarah, not Ken so much, being upset at me not being in cuffs. At the station I was processed: photographed, fingerprinted, DNA swab taken. I was led into a room for questioning and asked again if I wanted a solicitor. I declined and the questions went on for four to five hours. I won’t go into what the questions and my answers were all about, but needless to say my story (the facts) were repeated to them just as I have written them here. I did tell them that Susan was not normally my type; when questioned on this I said she was too short, too slim, and had smaller breasts than I would normally prefer. I was a breast man, so she really did little physically for me. When further questioned as to why we had sex then, I said that we were both willing partners, the booze probably helped, and Susan giving me a blow job certainly led the way to going back to my place — us both walking to the mission from the pub. Susan had walked unaided, and not in a drunken stupor, staying the night in my room, and all seemed fine in the morning during the walk 139
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back to the pub. What did come out during the questioning was that the search of my room had not found anything suspicious. I asked the police what exactly they were looking for and they told me straight that they were looking for Rohypnol, the daterape drug. Bloody hell! I’ve never even seen the drug, let alone had any; I hadn’t even heard of it until a few days earlier when I asked questions about “date-rape drugs”, and to this day, I’ve never even set eyes on that drug. I have to say this now, that during the investigation into my alleged rape charge, it was made known to me by the police and some of my friends that there was one guy who had this drug and had even boasted of using it on a woman in the local nightclub; he was one of the northerners in the Ellie on that Sunday night. What also came out was that Susan had had a drug test to see if any Rohypnol was in her system. There was none found, but I’d heard that this drug doesn’t stay in the body system long, and Susan had waited a couple of days before going to the station to make her accusation. However, what they did find (a police officer showed me the results) in her system was cocaine, cannabis, and speed (amphetamines). Not surprising really, as the northerners always had plenty to share. I left the station and was told that I was let out on unconditional bail; I didn't even know if that evening, or over the next few days, anything would be mentioned in the local news or in the local paper, the Dover Express. I still don’t know if it was; all I knew was from now until I was exonerated, I’d be a suspected rapist. I was told not to go near the Elephant and Hind pub nor approach Susan, Ken, or Sarah. “Fine by me” I thought, I had 140
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fuck all nice to say to them and I am sure — no, I knew — that they had fuck all nice to say to me. I was tired and defeated when I got out, but in my heart of hearts I knew that this would not go any further, for I’d done nothing wrong. I rang Lynn up and explained what the score was; she was on my side and asked if I was going to move to my sisters in Bognor Regis until it had all died down. I said, “No Way!”; I had nothing to hide and would stay in Dover and not run away, but I did warn her that I’d be getting a lot of shit from people, and that she and the kids would as well, I expect, receive some flak from people about this. Little were we to know just how much hassle the Grey family and their “friends” would inflict on Lynn and the kids. What anything about this episode had to do with them defeats me, but that’s what some people choose to do. I could take the slagging off, the threats, and the spitting, but Lynn and my kids for fuck’s sake; like I said, all cowards, and not one would come directly to me. Oh yes, the name calling and being spat at, but not one face-to-face meeting with any of the family. I’d even seen some Grey family members in various pubs, including Susan’s mother and father, but apart from the sneers towards me and the odd snide remark, no one bothered even to ask me what happened that night. No, they had one story and that was what they believed to be the truth. I tell a lie, there was one family member that I saw in a pub on more than one occasion; that person bought me a beer and I bought him one back. We were amicable with each other; this person said to me “Winnie, I’ve got an open mind on this, but I can tell you, if it was my daughter, and I knew it to be true, I’d have shot you by now”. I said that I respected that, and would do the same if someone had done that to my daughter and if I’d had proof that they had done 141
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it. I then said “If you had any inclination that I’d done this to Susan, you wouldn’t have bought me a beer, nor accepted my beer, and we would certainly not be having this conversation”. The person agreed with me and we parted ways; not as friends, but not as enemies either. I’m not sure how long it was before I was called on the phone by the CPS (Crown Prosecution Service); it could’ve been near to six months but I can’t recall. To me it felt like six bloody years, and all through that time I stayed in Dover, with the odd visit to my sister. I worked at various jobs, mostly down the docks working as a stevedore (forklift driver) for Hammonds, unloading ships in the dockyard. Many things happened to me, my friends, Lynn and the kids whilst awaiting the phone call to advise that I was completely exonerated. Here’s one example: Archie Dryden was either running the Old Endeavour pub, or was sitting outside it one day, with Susan of all people. I was walking by and I said hello to Archie but ignored Susan, as per my bail conditions. Archie asked if I wanted a beer; I said yes, he ordered and I sat with them at the table. The conversation was muted until Susan and I started talking. It was weird because this conversation was not one that you’d expect between a suspected rapist and his so-called victim. It was very amicable, and the chat was generally about each other’s health. I think Susan left after about ten minutes, leaving Archie and myself to chat; he asked how things were going and I explained I was waiting to hear from the CPS. Archie remarked that it was strange that Susan had cried rape after all we’d been through. I asked what he meant and he was under the impression that we’d been dating for a while, or at least that she was an ex of mine. I 142
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put him straight on that score, saying “No way, she’s not even my type, we hadn’t even kissed until that night”. Archie was stunned; where he’d got that notion from I do not know. I wondered how many others thought the same. At a later date, I walked into a pub in Dover after spending ten days away at a London clinic, where I’d been taking part in a clinical trial, basically being a human guinea pig for which you get paid. I hadn’t been drinking for those ten days and was on my way home, so I popped in for a quick pint. I sat with my friend Archie and a few others, with my back to the bar. Unbeknownst to me, a guy’s son was in the bar; I’ll call him Francis. Francis’ father was Steve Grey, and Steve was one of those people who couldn’t accept things for what they were. I didn’t see Francis, but even if I had, I wouldn’t have known him from Adam and, funnily enough, neither Archie nor any of the others mentioned it to me. I’d drunk about a third of my pint when I excused myself and went to the toilet. I was standing there at the urinal when this lad of about 18 years of age walked in and stood next to me; he made polite conversation as you do in the loo and asked if I was an ex-soldier. I said that I was; he said he thought so as I looked like a big lad and could handle myself; he said his name which I cannot recall and I said “Hi I’m Brian, but known as Winnie”, and he said that he’d heard of me. I zipped up, went back to the bar, resumed my seat and picked up my beer, thinking nothing more of it. Within moments of me sitting back down, the guy from the toilet launched himself over my shoulder, knocking me to the floor. I landed on my arse with my pint in my hand, and hadn’t spilt a drop. The guy then proceeded to clamp his mouth over my nose; 143
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it wasn’t a bite as I knew what a bite to the face was, but I could feel his teeth either side of my nose. I was stunned and didn’t move until the guy got off me. He stood up, shouting “Come on Francis, I’ve got him down”. “Come on Francis?” I thought. “I have an enemy in here and I’m down on the deck, for fuck’s sake?”. I leapt to my feet, put my pint on the table and turned to the bar to face any threat. I saw a guy at the bar holding a pint and looking at me. I was soon to find out that it was Francis Grey, the son of Steve Grey. We looked at each other but nothing was said. I grabbed, by the scruff of his neck, the little shit who had knocked me to the floor and said to him “I suggest you fuck off out of this pub right now, before I do some serious damage to you” and, I’ll give him his due, he was a game little fucker. He again spoke to Francis, saying “Come on Francis, we can take him, there’s two of us and one of him”. Well, I was ten days sober, fit as I could be, so even on a bad day two against me was, I thought, even odds, but I wasn’t in the pub to fight. I was only in for a quick beer on my way home, so the guy I had hold of, I led him to the pub door and threw him out, telling him to fuck off and think himself lucky. He left and didn’t come back. I looked over to Francis who said to me “We have to have a fight”. I said “What? Why?” He said, “You know why” and we danced around the same old stage of “we have to fight, no we don’t, etc”. I asked him who he actually was and he told me he was Francis Grey. I said “Who? Steve Grey’s boy?” and he confirmed he was. I then said “Look, I’m not going to fight you and that’s final”, but he was having none of it. He was adamant that we were going outside for a scrap; I asked if he had a mobile phone on him, he said yes, so I asked him to phone his dad and tell him where he was and that he wanted to take 144
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Winnie outside for a fight, also to tell him that Winnie is sober and does not want to fight. Steve had seen me fight bigger, stronger guys than his son and I was sure he would either advise him to get his arse home, or would come down and get him. But Francis said he did not need his dad’s permission to fight me. I tried to explain that the phone call to his dad was not to gain permission, but to seek advice from his dad on not fighting me when he was clearly drunk, or at least not very sober, but no, Francis was his own man and a fight was going to happen, one way or the other. More arguments ensued until I said “OK! Me and you outside, no weapons, no police and only the winner comes back in; I’ll walk out first, we’ll square off and fight; I’m only going to punch and knock you down and that will be that, if you try to hit me on the way out, I’ll break some of your bones”. With that I passed Archie my beer and said I’d be back shortly. Yes, I know, same old fucking scenario. No one else came out of the pub. We walked over the road to the yard of a mechanic I knew called Andy, which was lit up and as good a place as any to have this set-to. Good to his word on the way over he never jumped me or took a snide swing at me. We squared off and I told him to hit me, or at least take a swing or two; we danced around, he took a couple of swings and missed, I swung a punch which stunned him, the second put him down on his back. I crouched down grabbing his collar and was going to punch him but did not. I then heard this voice shouting and I saw a couple of guys running towards me from Andy’s garage; it was Andy himself and a couple of clients. Andy had CCTV and had seen what had happened, but did not know that it was me and this guy Francis. 145
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I explained the situation to Andy and asked him to take Francis in, clean him up and call his dad. He said he would. I went back to the pub, got my drink back from Archie, downed it in one and said “Right, I’m off before the cavalry turns up”. I told Archie that Francis Grey was with Andy and left the pub. About half an hour later I received a call from Steve Grey; he was fucking fuming at me, ranting and raving that I had beaten up his son and kicked and punched him whilst he was on the ground. He demanded to know where I was and wanted to come and fight me; I tried to defuse the situation and asked where he was; he said he was at home, but coming down to Andy’s garage to pick up his son. Apparently, his son had phoned his dad and, probably embarrassed about being knocked down, had made up his version of the fight. I told Steve to take a chill-pill and relax. “Breathe, and listen to me,” I said. I asked him to go and pick up his boy, speak to Archie in the pub and Andy at the garage, watch any CCTV footage he has and then get back to me. If he still wanted to fight then ring me and we can get it on. Steve did ring me the next day. He’d spoken to people and seen the CCTV, and said that although we were no longer friends and that one day, we’d surely meet again in “not-so-friendly circumstances”, he thanked me for trying to talk his boy out of fighting. He also thanked me for only punching his son twice. He conceded that I did not punch and kick his boy when he was down, and was thankful for that. I said to Steve “You know what I can do as you’ve seen me fight. I tried my best to ignore your boy but he wanted it and was not taking no for an answer. You know that punching and kicking a guy when he is down is not my style”. He agreed and hung up. I was told that Steve had 146
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gone down to Andy’s garage and had demanded that he hand over the CCTV tape. Andy had refused, but accepted to show it to him. Francis still wanted the tape but Andy held his ground. He showed him the tape but kept it himself. Good for you, Andy. I was down visiting my sister in Bognor Regis for a few days when I got a phone call from the Dover CID; they asked where I was and that they needed to chat with me ASAP. I told them where I was and they agreed to drive down the next day and to meet me. I asked what it was about and they said it was connected to an allegation against me. We met the next day in a Happy Eater restaurant on a big roundabout, near Goodwood race course. It was weird because they treated it like a spy meeting, checking out no one was following us. It was quite humorous, really. Coffees acquired, they got down to business. They had reliable information from a source in London that a contract had been put out on me. No cash amount was referred to, but they said it was for real. The contract was five days old and a firm from London was paid to carry it out. To tell you the truth, I was gobsmacked and naturally a little worried. I asked them if they knew who had put out the contract; they said they did. It was related to the allegation, but they couldn’t elaborate any further. I mentioned a name to them; they looked at each other and again said they couldn’t tell me. They asked me what I was doing down in West Sussex; I said I was visiting my sister for a while and that I’d be back in Dover in a few days. They advised that until this “issue” was resolved, I should stay out of Dover and stay here. Even better, they suggested for me to go into protective custody, until they could sort things out. I told 147
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them that no way was I going into protective custody, I would not stay in Sussex and would be back in Dover by the weekend, three days away. We spoke during another two cups of coffee and the officers left, knowing that I’d be back in Dover soon. I’d been back in Dover for a couple of days and I was making sure to have my wits about me but without being overzealous. I guess with two tours on the streets of Northern Ireland, one in Londonderry and one in Armagh, I thought that if there was going to be a hit on me, that I’d see it coming. I guess I was deluded, as a contract shooting would be a very different affair. I got a phone call early that afternoon from a very good friend of mine who wanted to speak to me ASAP. I said “No problem, when and where?”. He had conditions: I was to come alone, I was to tell no one that I was meeting him, or that I would be out that evening or early next morning. He said I was to either leave my phone at home or, if I brought it with me, it had to be turned off and the SIM card removed. I agreed to all these conditions and we arranged to meet in the small car park at the rear of The Bull pub at between 1 and 2am. Not the actual pub car park, which would have had CCTV, but a small gravel one just off Maison Dieu Road, behind the doctor’s surgery. Now, with the contract warning still very much in my mind: a meeting with this guy, in a car park in the early hours, with all his conditions, did it worry me? Not at all, because I’d known this guy for years and we had never wronged each other, in fact we had done business on quite a few occasions so I trusted him with my life. Well, looking back, that was exactly what I was doing. I got into his car; he was alone and asked to see my phone and SIM card. I showed him both. Satisfied, he went on to tell me that 148
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there was a contract out on my head; I told him I knew that already, but he said “Listen to me, Winnie”, so I did. He went on to say that a firm in London had been given the job by someone I knew; this news did not surprise me, but it was good to know firsthand, so to say. Before the firm came down to do the contract, they wanted to gain the facts themselves and sort out the wheat from the chaff in what they’d been told. Basically, they wanted a complete picture. They wanted to know who “worked” for them in the Dover area that would know about me and the allegations against me, so they contacted my friend, who happened to work for them, who told them all the facts as he knew them, even giving them the full rundown on who I was and if he thought I’d done what was claimed. Well, he went on to tell me that the crew in London had been told that I’d been in hiding and that I had committed this crime. That I had been to court and been found not guilty, and was now swanning around Dover giving it large, bragging that I’d beaten the charge and had gotten away with it. I could not believe what I was hearing. I said “Are you serious?”. He said he was. So, here I was, not having been charged, not having been to court, not having been in hiding, and certainly not having been bragging about this allegation in any way shape or form. Anyway, he told me that they had assured him they would take his information onboard, and after double checking things themselves, they were satisfied that this contract was not going to go ahead. I’m not sure if they returned the money, probably not, but my friend told me at a later date that they’d had words with the person about the misinformation they’d supplied, and that if they’d carried out the contract with the information that they’d been given and later it had emerged that it was all lies, the firm’s 149
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name in both London and the UK as a whole would have been sullied.
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Whilst waiting for the CPS to negate the false allegation against me, I went about my normal business at work and in town. I’d drink in my local pubs but there were two that I always had a little grief in; one was the Lord Nelson and the other was The Eight Bells (a Wetherspoons pub). The Eight Bells, like all Wetherspoons pubs, always had a cross-section of people in; from your local smackheads and run-of-the-mill shoplifters, to families getting a cheap drink and meal for the kids. I was quite well known in Dover by now, not just as someone who could look after himself but also well known for being suspected of a heinous crime. People would walk past making snide remarks, spitting at my feet and some even getting up and leaving if I sat near them; these people were few and far between but it never went unnoticed by others who didn’t know me. On a number of occasions in The Eight Bells I’d be sitting in a window chair and been recognised from the street by some of the people. Some of the children who came up to peer inside, sneer at me, name call and spit at the window I was sitting in front of, were the same age as my grandkids, for fuck’s sake. Yes, it did hurt me, as I was innocent of any crime; even now when I visit Dover to see my kids and grandkids, I’m always on the lookout for people who I suspect will give me hassle. I cannot overstate the grief and pain that one can receive from people who refuse to believe facts over hearsay. I’m particularly careful these days to not judge people on hearsay accounts before looking into the facts. I can really empathise now with others who face unfounded and, sometimes, preposterous allegations. The Lord 151
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Nelson used to be my local and I played football for the football team there on many occasions over many years, but I even started taking shit in there as well. I never had a fight there over these allegations, but I think that was due to me leaving the pub before it kicked off in my direction. The Lord Nelson, Sunday afternoon/early evening. I’d played football with The Bull Fossils that morning. I was still playing goalkeeper; bizarrely, we had football legend and Welsh International goalkeeper Neville Southall playing for us on pitch. We’d all gone back to The Bull for beer and poker and a few of us had decided to continue drinking downtown. I’m not sure if we walked down having a few pints on the way at different pubs or if we got taxis down to the Market Square and drank in the pubs there. I do know that we ended up in the Lord Nelson. I think that I was on my second pint when I saw a friend of mine called Micky. He has since passed away, but what a character! A great guy and real gentleman, he had his fingers in everything; if you wanted something, Micky would produce it in a matter of hours if required. Micky looked like your average traveller (pikey) and was always out in the country with his dogs and shotguns. You could be in a pub and ask him for a pheasant or a rabbit and he’d produce one from his jacket. Micky was not a magician but a real character. He asked how I was coping with all the drama of the accusations; I said I was bearing up. He said “You see the northerners that I’m with, they’re all talking about you being a guilty bastard, so be careful”. “Here we go”, I thought. I thanked him for the warning and he went back to join his group. I was getting the déjà vu feeling again that trouble was brewing, what with the 152
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northerners’ stares, snide remarks and phones to their ears. That, coupled with Micky’s warning and his worried look from across the bar led me to believe I would be leaving the pub soon, either of my own accord or in an ambulance at the hands of other people. I said my goodbyes to the guys who I’d been drinking with, one of them being Colin, who played up front with the Bull Fossils. Affectionately known as “Mr Offside”, due to the position he normally got himself in whilst trying to score for the team. Later that evening, Colin and his wife Anne were to come to my aid like no one I've ever known, but it was to be at a huge price, due to the friendship that Colin and Anne extended to me. This again revealed the cowardice, in my opinion, of those who refused to accept my innocence. I left the Nelson and came across my friend Archie who was standing outside by the side door. I think he was on the phone. I glanced around and saw there were a few people milling around. Over by the Coastal Taxis office, people were waiting for their rides; I noticed one guy who stood out from the rest; he was on his own, had his hood up, and wore a scarf around his face. He particularly stood out because it was not cold enough an evening to be hooded and scarfed up, also because he was bouncing from foot to foot and looking in my direction. I also perceived that he had a hold of something inside his jacket. My senses were heightened as I looked around for anyone else who could mean trouble for me, but I saw no one else. I was still looking at that guy when Archie finished his call and said “All right Winnie, what are you doing down here?”. I said I was with the team and had been grabbing a pint with them but was now going home. He said “Come back in for another 153
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beer, it’s early, why are you going home?”. As Archie was saying this, I saw “Scarf Man” walking in our direction; from the inside of his jacket he produced a sawn-off shotgun and was now into a jog in our direction. As Archie got the “Why are you going home?” words out I was already half turning to flee in the opposite direction from Scarf Man. I pointed towards him and said “Because of that!”. I was on my toes in the opposite direction from Scarf Man and Archie. Archie had looked in the direction of where I had pointed but by now Scarf Man was level with Archie and heading after me. I was far too quick for this guy to catch me, but that didn’t stop me from running hell for leather as fast as I could. Just before I turned out of the alleyway into the Market Square, I heard the familiar sound of both barrels of a shotgun being discharged in my direction. I do not know to this day what the gun was loaded with, nor did I care at the time, all I knew was to run away. Nothing from the shotgun hit me, which was lucky. Thinking back on it now, and in hindsight, having discharged both barrels, I’m now pretty certain that he wouldn’t have had more cartridges to load into the shotgun. I should have turned around, confronted him and wrapped the gun around his head a few times, but I was still on my toes and didn’t stop running until I got back to the Dover Seaman’s Mission, where I was living. The gunman however had turned around and headed back down the alleyway; Archie who had watched all this was still standing where I had left him, rooted to the spot. Scarf Man drew level with Archie and, pointing the gun at him, said, “I know you”, to which Archie, his hands up, replied “Fuck all to do with me, mate” and with that, Scarf Man went around the outside of the 154
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Lord Nelson, over the little bridge and into the Britannia pub, which was about 150 metres from the Nelson. He obviously went to the Britannia pub to hand back the shotgun to the person who’d given it to him. The shotgun was never recovered and as for Scarf Man, he was never found or questioned. I often wondered why he’d picked up the shotgun there and taken it back there. Yet it was never recovered. I do recall that the family that were running the pub at the time, or at least some of those working behind the bar, were family members of those holding a grudge against me. Coincidence? Of course it was. I was now back in the mission and looking out over the marina, talking to the police on my phone. I’d dialled 999 and as a firearm incident had been reported, an Armed Police Response Unit was dispatched to the scene and shortly after, police started to turn up at the marina, where they set up an incident location. Archie, by now, had gone back into the pub and reported what had just happened. I wasn’t sure if anyone had heard the shots or not but Archie definitely had. Colin was on his phone, desperately trying to ring me but was getting the engaged signal as I was on the phone to the police. After I’d hung up from the police, I immediately called old man Francis, who was the head of the family that held this grudge. I called Francis to ask him what the fuck he thought he was playing at, getting people to shoot me. He tried to deny it, but in the end, he said, “Well, they missed you, didn’t they?”. He asked where I was, I told him to go fuck himself, and hung up. I never spoke to him again. Colin finally got through to me and asked where I was. I said I was in the mission and he told me to stay there, that he was coming to 155
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me. He arrived shortly afterwards and I think Kevin Tracy was with him, plus maybe some others but I’m not sure. The Mission bar was open and we all got a drink. By now the Old Bill had arrived; I could see six or seven police cars over in the marina, with police officers putting on flak jackets and loading weapons. I was questioned by officers on what had happened and why I think it had happened, so they had a rough background of the situation. I related to them from the time I left the pub and was shot at, to the time I’d called them. I couldn’t tell them that Scarf Man had gone around to the Britannia pub because at the time I did not know that. They did however, in the course of their immediate investigation, go into that pub to ask questions, but by then I am sure that the gun was long gone, as was Scarf Man. I’m smiling as I type this next bit. Colin was now by my side and was insistent that I was not going to be staying at the mission, that I was going to come home with him; he’d phoned Anne, and it was sorted. I was adamant that I was OK where I was, here at the mission, but he was having none of it — I was coming home with him. I guess it was a squaddie thing, because Colin was also in the army. Well, saying he was in the army is stretching it a bit far, as Colin was only in the Queen’s Regiment (he’ll kill me for saying that). We used to rib each other about our different regiments; he would call me a “Hammy Hamster” (Royal Hampshire) and I would call him a “Queen” (the Queen’s Regiment). Funnily enough, in later years his regiment and mine were amalgamated and became the Princess of Wales Royal Regiment (PWRR), but this never stopped the name calling.
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I moved into Colins’ for a few days. He wouldn’t let me go out; I was basically to stay put until the heat had died down and the threat of me being gunned down again was over. Little were we all to know how much Colin and Anne’s friendship to me was to annoy the Grey family. They had phone calls, threats, were shunned by people, and Colin probably lost work over it. So called wronged people were at it again, attacking the wrong people. Again, this family never contacted me. It’s funny when you think about it now. Steve, who took me on at the garage, knew my number and could easily have called. We could also have met at any time, in fact I did reach out to the family on a few occasions to meet up, but was told that it would never happen. I did however find out who Scarf Man was: it was about 6 months later, he’d been bragging about it, and one of my friends told me who he was. I don’t believe I’ve seen him since, but if you are reading this, “Shane C”, do please come up to me face to face (without the scarf this time) and admit it was you that shot at me. I’m sure we could have a nice little chat about it.
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This club was run by William “Bill” Solly, who also owned Bill’s Bait Shop in Snargate Street. Bill also owned a fishing boat that he used to take people out on for fishing day trips. I think actually that Bill may have had two of these boats. Bill had put the investment into the club which he let his son (Clive Solly) run; he was a member and chairman of the Dover sea angling club, and had the assumption that Raffles would be run in much the same way as the angling club; how wrong he was! Raffles, I guess, took over from the Prince Regent pub. What I mean is that if you wanted anything or needed to find a “Dover face”, then all you had to do was go to Raffles, or at least leave a message there. Clive had a few of his friends working there; Ken would help with the bar and run the music, as well as DJing a bit. Now, this club opened during the height of the era of acid house music and raves. At one time or another Raffles became the “in” place to be, and on some weekend nights there was a queue to get in that went all the way down the stairs and out onto the street. You had to be a member of this “club” which I think cost a fiver a year; anyone not a member had to be signed in by a member and had to pay 50p for entry. Now like I said, Bill Solly wanted the place to be run like the angling club; if you were not a member there, you also had to be signed in and 50p paid to the club. The angling club used to make on average £50 to £60 a week on the door with non-members paying their 50p, and that was on a good week, so Bill employed a local lad that was a bit of a hard man to look after the door. Bill said that he was not going to pay this guy, but whatever he made from 158
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the door (the 50p fees) he could keep, and could have a few beers a night as well. This local hard man went by the name of Brian “Pixie” Burnett; I’ll refer to him further as just Pixie. Pixie and I got on great from our first meeting and are still friends. Pixie’s son, Ryan Burnett, is from Northern Ireland (Belfast) and he later went on to become World IBF Bantamweight Boxing Champion, competing from 2013 to 2019 when he retired from boxing competitively through injury. I knew Ryan as a kid but never got to see him box live on TV, although many of the Dover lads used to go and watch him fight in various cities in England, as well as Belfast. Bill thought along the lines of how much the angling club made on the door and thought that giving Pixie the door money was well worth it, that 50-60 quid a week for a doorman was a good deal for him. Bill was one shrewd man when it came to money and I know that all those who knew him would agree with me there. In other words, he was a tight sod. If he could get away with not paying anyone too much he would. He’d haggle for everything when it came to cash, but little did he know from the start how popular the club would become. The place started to be packed on weekends and Pixie began pulling in over 200 quid a week. Pixie was quite ruthless on that door; if your name was not down on that members’ list, you were paying 50p come what may. These were after all his wages we were talking about. A couple of instances come to mind as to how ruthless he was when collecting his “wages”. I was working behind the bar next to the front door, where Pixie had his table, money box and membership book details. Pixie called over and asked if I could watch the door while he went to the toilet. I waved and said 159
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“yes, no problem”. We were pretty busy and I had to sign a couple of people in. I happened to be back behind the bar serving when this guy came in and stood by the table, waiting to sign in. I was really busy, so I called over and just waved him in without making him pay. He got a drink and went into the club, then Pixie came back and resumed his position, thanking me. I was now watching Pixie; I said to the guy behind the bar with me to also watch Pixie, as this was going to be funny. I told the guy that I’d let someone in without paying and bet him a pint that Pixie would spot him. Now the club was packed, so he gladly took the bet. We watched Pixie; I could see the guy I’d let in over the other side of the bar but there must have been twenty to thirty people between him and Pixie. Pixie, with a bottle of Mad Dog cider in his hand, was looking in the direction of this guy. Pixie now looked like a meerkat, on his back feet stuck in some headlights; his head was bobbing and weaving and you could see his brain working out if this guy had paid to get in or not. In his mind he had not, and without taking his eyes off the guy he placed his bottle down on the table, weaved his way through the guests and grabbed this guy by the scruff of his neck, taking him back to his table. The poor guy struggled to maintain his balance and to stop his beer spilling. At the table he was questioned by Pixie, admitting that he hadn’t paid and pointing in my direction, saying I’d let him in without paying. I was pissing myself laughing and avoiding Pixie’s glare; the guy paid his 50p to Pixie and I called him to the bar and gave him a free pint to smooth things over. Everyone saw the funny side, even Pixie but only after a while; after all it was his wages I’d been fucking around with.
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On another occasion, well, every weekend really, my old friends Pete and June Turner used to come in. They were great friends with Bill Solly; Pete and Bill’s friendship went back years. Bill had made Pete and June honorary members of the club, in fact they were number one and number two members. Bill had only made one membership card for them in the name of June, so in theory Pete did not have a card and was technically not a member, in Pixie’s eyes. Each and every time Pete and June came into the club, Pixie was there to take Pete’s 50p off him. Pete and June would go through the game of saying that they were both members and Pixie would say “No membership card, no entry, unless June signs you in for 50p”, so each weekend the game went on and Pete paid 50p. Bill would always come out to see Pete and June, Pete would always say “Bloody Pixie made me pay 50p again, Bill”. Bill would curse and berate Pixie then say sorry to them both by telling the barman to get Pete a Guinness and June a G&T. I watched this game every time Pete and June came in; Pixie got his 50p, Bill got upset his friends had to endure this, and Pete got a Guinness and G&T for 50p. Pete never asked Bill to print him a membership card and it didn’t occur to Bill that he was being scammed. You had to smile at it all. Raffles did well, bloody well as it happens, and although I didn’t know the details, they must have been raking it in, because we were going through beer and spirit stocks like wildfire, sometimes having an extra delivery from the brewery each week. We even hit cash and carry for extra stock, which I guess didn’t go through the books (well, not the right books that is).
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I have to say and people cannot deny it: Raffles was known for drugs, among other things. You could get most drugs there, and I’m talking speed (amphetamines), cocaine, ecstasy, LSD and marijuana. I never saw or ever heard of heroin, crack or smack being mentioned up there; I think that was a taboo subject amongst all us guys, although I’m sure some people were dealing it and it was available in town, but never up at Raffles, nor Bluffs for that matter. Pixie, although a hard man, could not be expected to keep all the trouble in the club at bay, so I would invariably be called to assist him if he needed it and I think we worked well as a team, so well that we had a side line, which I might elaborate on later. It was a few years into our friendship that people started to talk about us – no, not that way! Because we were both what people assumed were hard men, people often wondered which one of us would win in a fight if it ever happened. Some people thought Pixie would win and others thought I would; these rumours eventually got back to us and although it was never brought up between us I am sure it played on Pixie’s mind as much as it played on mine. Were people saying these things to get us to argue, or even get us into a fight? We never knew. One day when me and Pixie were on the lash, a semi-drunken conversation got around to the gossip about who was the hardest; neither of us said that either was the hardest or strongest but we did get around to discussing having an arranged fight between us. We’d pretend to have a falling out and arrange a fight, which would invariably involve a large audience who would pay to get in. Someone would run a book and one or the other of us would either win or lose, depending on the odds and what we could both make out of it. Talk even went on a rematch, should people think the “other guy” should 162
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have won. Anyway, with all this chat and the rumours of a forthcoming fight, nothing occurred and me and Pixie had never even had so much as a slanging match. I suppose people had been comparing us to the two great London rivals Lenny Mclean and Rob Roy Shaw. Raffles had many infamous incidents that should not have happened and were regrettable; one of these was the stabbing and death of a young Liverpudlian lad from Dover called Johnny White. We’d been having trouble with some guys from Folkestone and had a few disputes with them both at the club and in Folkestone. Nicky Copeland — now here was a guy that would put his money where his mouth was. Nicky had been plagued and bullied endlessly by this crew from Folkestone. One guy in particular, Anthony Puxley, would constantly pick on Nicky; he’d bully him, take money from him, beat him up, and even went as far as to threaten to shoot him with a gun that he claimed to carry with him. We decided enough was enough and so we took two cars and eight guys over to Folkestone to sort them out one afternoon. We were not tooled up with weapons; we went there with only our good looks, charm, and fists. This was I think either a Saturday or Sunday afternoon — anyway we must have gone into about 4 or 5 pubs and we didn’t see this guy or any of his crew, they’d either got wind that we were coming over or were perhaps at a church group. I think it was the former and they got scared. We were a little despondent but not overly, as we’d had a day out and a few beers whilst we were there. On the way back to Dover however, another incident took place that really caught us all by surprise. Just as we were coming into Dover, on the Folkestone road, three 163
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unmarked police cars boxed our two cars in. One cut across the front of our lead car, the other two stopped close behind the rear one. Out jumped about a dozen guys with civilian clothes, police caps and flak jackets. They converged on our cars and we got out quickly, thinking in the first instance that these guys were from Folkestone. The police made it known who they were and that they wanted us to remain still, and started taking our names and addresses. I knew a couple of these officers and asked what this was all about; one said that this was a stop-andsearch as they suspected the cars to be full of drugs. Apparently they’d followed us from Dover to Folkestone and watched us enter the pubs then come back, and that is when they stopped us. They’d had a tip off that we were going over to pick up a big supply of drugs, but I explained that we’d gone over for a fight with some guys, but couldn’t find them so came back to Dover. They were adamant that we had drugs and were going to search us and the cars, then take us and whatever they found into custody for further questioning. By now the five cars — ours and the three police cars with their hidden blue and red lights flashing — had drawn quite an audience of onlookers. Not just passers-by, but also people from local houses had come out to look at the commotion. Justin Hutton was standing next to me and Pixie, being questioned by two officers; one asked Justin where he lived, he pointed behind the officer and said “there”. The officer looked behind himself and saw the house that now had its occupant in the garden watching the proceedings, and said “OK smart-arse, what’s the address?”, so Justin rattled it off. The officer still didn’t believe him and said as much, so Justin said “Go ahead, ask my mum, 164
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she’s standing in the garden watching all this”. The officer's face was a picture as he turned to Justin’s mum and said “Excuse me, is this your son?”, to which she of course replied “Yes”. In the meantime, the police had asked to search me and Pixie, still protesting our innocence about any drugs or weapons and maintaining that we only went over for a fight. I said “OK, if you want to search me, go ahead” and I stripped down to my socks, shoes and underpants. Pixie followed suit and we stood there for all to see. The police were telling us to get dressed but we were having none of it and demanded that they search us. The cars were quickly searched, as were we, then myself and Pixie got dressed. The police still wanted to take us all away to Folkestone station for questioning, but we were having none of it, as we had done sod all wrong. I think something must have come through on their radios, that they had made a mistake in stopping us, because as quickly as they had stopped us, they packed up all their gear, got back in their cars and left. It was quite surreal, as, looking around, it looked as if nothing had happened and that our two cars had just stopped and we’d all just got out to stretch our legs. We climbed back in and drove back to Raffles for a few pints to recount what had just happened. We met John Dunmore in Raffles, which was strange because he’d been in the lead car with me when the police stopped us. I asked how the fuck he’d got there and he said when the police had stopped the cars and we’d all got out, he’d simply walked off into town and come to Raffles! So much for police observational skills. It was just as well really, because John was a social worker and I don’t suppose that the police stop would have looked too good on him and his career. I did 165
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smile, because if we’d been carrying drugs, how easy would it have been for John to walk away with them? One thing that did surprise me about that day and that event, was that nobody had carried a weapon of any kind, nor any type of drugs. The Folkestone guys, and in particular Puxley, came over from Folkestone one afternoon/early evening and caused a bit of a commotion in Raffles. I knew nothing of this as I was in another part of town but as I was walking towards Raffles, I noticed that a large crowd had gathered outside the club. On the Raffles side of the road behind a street barrier were people from the club, including my mates Justin and Johnny Mac. I stood next to Johnny and looked across the street; there were two cars there, loaded up with the crew from Folkestone; the lead car had its front passenger door open and a young woman was shouting obscenities to all and sundry on my side. The driver was standing with his back to the car, facing everyone with his hand in his jacket, gangster style. I asked John what was going on and he explained that these guys had been in the club causing trouble and it had spilled out here, and now, the guy with his hand in his jacket was saying that he had a gun and that if anyone came near him he’d shoot them. I called across to him to show me his gun, to which his reply was “Come over here and you’ll definitely see it”. I eyed the situation up, looked at John, said I’d be back in a minute, stepped over the barrier and moved towards the guy. The conversation went back and forth: “Don’t come any nearer” – “Show me your gun” – “Don’t come any nearer” – “Show me your gun”. As I stood in front of him the woman screaming obscenities turned her foul mouth towards me and began to get out of the car. I suggested she stay 166
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where she was and shut the door, but no, she was halfway out to attack me when my fist hit her square in the head and she fell back in the car. I slammed the door shut. Now the prat in front of me just stood there, eyes wide open, so I grabbed the hand inside his jacket and pulled it out; the guy was holding a fucking TV remote, for God’s sake. He dropped it as I began to punch him in the face; behind me some of the guys had come over the barrier as the guy wrestled free from my grip and tried to run off. I took a swing with my foot at him but missed; by then a few from the back of the car had got out and a small fight ensued. Johnny Mac got stabbed by the TV remote guy, who did a runner and disappeared around the corner; I saw Justin disappear after him. Everything seemed to die down pretty quickly; the two cars pissed off, either back to Folkestone or to find TV remote guy, who’d disappeared with Justin in hot pursuit. Justin, we found out later, had managed to catch up with him after a long chase; he’d caught him but in the ensuing fight, Justin was stabbed too. The TV remote guy tried to get into Images night club, seeking sanctuary with the door staff, who Justin was on good terms with, so without any hesitation the guy was promptly thrown back into the street and into Justin’s hands, where Justin went on to beat the crap out of him. At this time, little did we know that this was the guy that had been giving Nicky Copeland all his trouble – what a small world it was.
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Nicky Copeland came into Raffles one Saturday lunchtime and got himself a coffee. You could see he was uptight about something as he was pacing up and down. Dave, Mike and I sat with him for about an hour and he poured his heart out, that this fucker from Folkestone was doing his head in. The guy had apparently caught up with Nicky in town again, had slapped him around a bit and taken cash from him. Furthermore, the guy was threatening Nicky, saying he was going to shoot him. We were trying to placate Nicky but he was adamant that the harassment was going to end today, that he would “deal with it”, one way or another. I asked what he had in mind and with that he produced a handgun from his pocket, saying if he found him today and threatened him again, he’d shoot him dead. Now, we were quite stunned by seeing a firearm sitting on the table; we all thought that this was bravado talk and that this pistol was probably a fake anyway, or a starter pistol, so I took it off him and with Mike we walked to the toilets to inspect the gun. Now, being ex-forces I knew what I was looking for in a fake gun and a real one, and blow me down, this was the real deal. It looked like a piece of scrap metal to be honest; it was rusty in places and there was some tape holding it together, but on closer inspection, Mike and I concluded that not only would it fire, it could kill someone if fired, so “good luck on pulling that trigger Nicky”, I thought. When we got back from the toilet, I passed the gun back to Nicky and said “Yep, that’s the real thing and I guess it would fire if needed”. Dave, Mike and I did not, at any point, think that Nicky was serious when he said “Good, next 168
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time I see him, he’s dead”. We again thought nothing would come of it; Nicky left the club and we thought nothing more of it. The rest of the afternoon passed quietly and I went home to get myself something to eat and put my feet up before coming back down town later that evening. I was watching the local news when a reporter came on and said that a local man had been gunned down in Folkestone High Street, right in front of horrified shoppers, but that the gunman had been arrested and was in police custody, “assisting with their enquiries”. Apparently, what transpired was that Nicky had travelled to Folkestone in a taxi and had gone around various pubs looking for Puxley, but couldn’t find him in his normal hangouts. He’d been walking up High Street in Folkestone when he caught sight of Puxley walking down the same street. It was a Saturday afternoon and the street was full of shoppers as Nicky’s and Puxley’s eyes locked. They were about 20 feet apart when Puxley put his hand in his jacket and said “Nicky, I’ve got a gun and I’m going to shoot you”; as it turns out he never had a gun but Nicky didn’t know this and simply said “So have I”. With that, Nicky pulled his gun out and shot Puxley dead, right there in the high street. On seeing and hearing the gun shot, the shoppers ran in all directions; Nicky, cool as you like, simply walked over to the nearest bench, sat down, placed the gun to one side, and waited for the police to arrive and arrest him. I was on the phone to Mike and Dave straightaway to see if they’d seen the news. They had indeed seen it so we arranged to meet up later to discuss the events, as the shit was surely about to hit the fan. They had the gunman and they had the gun, so now they’d be looking into his 169
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movements up to that point. Dave, Mike and I could well be in the frame for this because our fingerprints would be all over the murder weapon; any good prosecutor could, and probably would, put us down as accessories to murder at least. God forbid they could conclude that we’d sanctioned the killing! We really thought we might be in big trouble. Luckily — very luckily for us — we were never connected in any way to this tragic incident.
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(Three times world darts champion in three different decades, and the first player to achieve a perfect televised nine-dart finish).
John and I were both in Germany when we first met, me being in the British Army and him doing an exhibition show. The next time we met was in Dover, about ten years later. One Saturday afternoon I was standing having a quiet pint in the Dover Tavern with the landlord John Watson, when who should walk by but the man himself, John Lowe! I put my pint down and went outside to find him, saying “Hello, John Lowe, isn’t it?”, he replied that he was indeed that person. “Hi, I’m Brian Winton, Winnie to my friends, you maybe won’t recall me but we were introduced ten years ago in Germany when I was in the army out there and you were doing exhibition games. What are you doing in Dover?”. He said that he was doing a show in the Post Office Club later that evening and was looking for a pub to have some practice throws before going there. I said that I’d be happy to take him to a local pub but first I needed to finish my pint. He said “I’ll join you”, so I took him in and introduced him to John Watson and a few friends that were there. John got himself a pint of lager then proceeded to sign autographs and have his picture taken with the boys. Once we were done with all of that, we then left to find a pub with a dartboard. John Watson shouted abuse at me for taking John Lowe away and my reply was that if he’d had a dartboard, we would of course have stayed, it was as simple as that. John and I walked over to the Lord Nelson which I knew had a dart board. When I walked 171
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in, John followed and I ordered a Hurlimann’s lager. This was strong stuff and if you were not used to it, five pints would do you in. John said “What’s that, Winnie?” I said “It’s a nice lager but a strong one, mate”. John said he’d have one as well and he’d get them, so Jim the landlord served them and took John’s money. We sat there drinking and John started to get his darts out; I could see Jim the landlord looking at John and trying to register who he was. In his brain he knew he knew him but just couldn’t place him and was looking between me and John for some help. In the end, Jim came over and said “Is that John Lowe?”, I said that it was and that he was here for a few games of darts before going to the Post Office Club where he’s doing a show. He asked if I was looking after him, I said no. I think we had about four or five pints of Hurlimann’s in there. Whilst playing, John and I were sitting in between throws talking to Jim, and across the bar I could see two young shoplifters call him over and ask for the pub darts. Now these lads were local “smack heads”, and had probably never held a dart in their life; something with a point on the end like a hypodermic needle maybe, but a dart? No way. On seeing them ask for the darts, John nudged me and said “I bet they ask me for a game”. I said “I’m not taking that bet, John”, and sure enough the two lads came over and asked John for a game. John said that he didn’t normally play darts, as he was a professional snooker player. The looks on those guys’ faces were a picture; they thought they’d recognised him as a darts player but he is in fact a snooker player, so they asked if they could play pool instead. John said he was just joking with them and would be up for a game of darts; surprisingly, he beat 172
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them both. John asked Jim if he did food at the pub, Jim said no but could get his missis to rustle up some sandwiches, to which John said “Yes please!”. Jim called up to Sue and asked her to make a couple of sandwiches, which she brought down and, handing them to John, said “£2.50 please”. Jim waved her away, saying “It’s OK, they’re on the house”. Sue wasn’t thrilled as she didn’t know who this guy was, but when Jim explained, she seemed happy to concede payment. John got a round of drinks for everyone before leaving for the Post Office Club, but he hadn’t realised the time, as he had been enjoying it so much in the Nelson. It was now almost 7pm and he was due to actually be at the Post Office by that time. Prior to leaving, John asked me if any Chinese restaurants stayed open late on a Saturday and could I recommend one. I asked what time he was finishing, he said 11pm so wanted to get some food at about 11:30. I called the Good Luck restaurant in London Road and asked the owner Andy what time last orders were; he said 11:30. I asked him if he knew who John Lowe was; well, Andy liked his darts and said that he knew John was a legend in the world of darts. I said he wanted to come in that night at 11:30, to give him what he wanted and I’d stop by tomorrow and pay for it. He agreed, so with that arranged, I gave John all the details of the Chinese and said that it would be my treat. I gave him Andy’s number in case he was late, John and I exchanged numbers, I got him a taxi and he left. The next morning was my usual “Sunday League Football morning”; we were playing at the Danes Pitches and when I arrived there were eight or ten of my mates there already. They came up to me and said “Hey Winnie, we never knew you were 173
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friends with John Lowe!”. Puzzled, I asked a couple of them what they meant. It turned out some had been to the Post Office Club that night, and some had seen John again at the Chinese, later on. He’d got on stage at the Post Office Club and on the microphone had apologised for being late, that he’d been drinking Hurlimann’s with his friend Winnie in the Nelson. Well blow me down, the great John Lowe was calling me his friend! I’ll take that one, thank you. Monday afternoon I got a call from John, thanking me for a great afternoon and asking me to thank Jim and Sue for their hospitality and sandwiches, also to thank Andy for the Chinese and making him feel welcome, and another thank you to me for sorting the bill out. When I did go to sort the bill out, Andy said it was free and a pleasure to have a gentleman such as him in the restaurant. The next time I phoned John up was to ask him if he wanted to do a show in Deal – just down the road from Dover — he said yes and I gave him the details. What a decent guy! After my rape allegation was (quite rightly) settled, I’d moved out of Dover, gone to live at my sister’s house in Bognor Regis, and found work there. Whilst in Bognor Regis I ended up going out with Carol, landlady of a local pub called The Berkeley Arms. This pub is no longer in business and the premises now house a museum. Whilst living at the pub with Carol we were both members of different dart teams there; in fact there were a lot of dart players and teams in Bognor so it was inevitable that I would call upon John to come down to the pub to do a darts night there. When I called him, he was more than happy to come down and even brought his good lady Karen with him; what a lovely lady she is, and together they make a fantastic couple.
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The pub rented rooms out so John and Karen were booked in for the Saturday night. They arrived early Saturday morning, settled into their room then came down to the bar for a drink — and why not when you’re in a pub? John and Karen wanted to pop around the town for a look-see, as I’d described Bognor as “The Last Resort”. I don’t think either had been to Bognor before. There isn’t much to it really — just one main high street – but hey-ho, off they went and spent a couple of hours around the town. John wanted to go somewhere quiet to have a few warm up throws at a pub prior to coming back to ours for the darts night, so I’d arranged with Jan, landlady of the nearby Pink Pub, for John to go down for a few hours of warm up. Jan assured me it was OK, as the pub and dart board area was normally quiet on a Saturday afternoon. Carol, Karen, John and I arrived at the Pink Pub and went into the public bar, but it was packed and people were playing darts, for fuck’s sake. I looked at Jan and she shrugged, as if to say “these things happen”. Well, they don’t just happen: Jan had let slip that John Lowe would be there playing on the dart board that afternoon, so all the budding Eric Bristows and Jockey Wilsons were in to play the big man. I looked at John and said “sorry”, and did he want to go somewhere else, but before he could reply, someone had a beer in his hand and orders were taken for Carol, Karen and me, so we stayed, and John fortunately really enjoyed the pub atmosphere and the darts. He and Karen even ended up having some lunch there. That night, in the Berkeley Arms, the pub was packed with dart players from all over. Everyone had a great night and John seemed to be enjoying himself, as well as the local beers, as did 175
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Karen. It was getting towards closing time; we said our goodbyes to everyone and decided to have a few friends stay behind for wind-down drinks. There was me, John, Karen, Carol, even my son Ben who was down for the week; he’d been helping out serving behind the bar, working in the cellar, and of course having the odd drinking session with his dad. Also there was Norman, who lived upstairs and worked as handyman and barman, as well as helping out in the kitchen at mealtimes and doing the washing up, etc. I liked Norman; he was a very nice, polite guy and never had a bad word for anyone, plus he was a mean dart player and had played John (who happened to be his hero) that night. It was Norman’s birthday that weekend and John had presented him with a cake. John left us on Sunday lunchtime; I’m not sure if we all went to the Pink Pub again (they did a mean Sunday roast) for lunch or if John and Karen just wanted to get back to Chesterfield. Now John, the late Eric Bristow MBE, Bob Anderson and Dennis Priestley, to name but a few dart players, did a lot of work for Macmillan’s cancer charity and did shows all around the country, raising money for the charity by playing the public at darts. John had invited me and my now fiancée Cynthia to one of these shows, which happened to be in our area of Hertfordshire. It was due to be a morning of clay pigeon shooting, followed by darts at a local pub with John and Eric. I’d never met Eric and I was looking forward to doing so. Cynthia and I turned up for the shoot; I’d previously fired a shotgun (as well as having a couple fired at me) but Cynthia was new to it, so they showed us both how to load, unload and fire the guns.
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We collected our cartridges, joined a group, and went off for an afternoon’s shooting. Out of the 30 or 40 cartridges we each had, I think we both hit only two or three clays each. Pretty crap really, but we both enjoyed the afternoon and Cynthia ended up with a big bruise on her shoulder from the recoil, bless her. John and Karen turned up for a photo shoot at the end of the afternoon. Eric was to meet us later at the pub. We made our way to the pub where we’d booked a chalet, as had Eric, as well as John and Karen. We dropped our clothes off in the room and went for a few beers, of course. The night had begun! John and Karen came in when I was on my second pint (I could knock back a few in those days); I asked them if they wanted a drink but they declined me buying them a drink as they said theirs were free, as were Eric’s. “No problem” I said, and John went off to play “meet and greet” with all those hopefuls who’d come to play darts. Karen, after a while, came and stood with us and soon we were joined by John and Eric. For those of you of a certain age you will know Eric Bristow by his nickname of the “Crafty Cockney”. He had some great TV darts battles with all the great players, including Jockey Wilson, and of course John Lowe. He looked, dressed and sounded exactly as you saw on TV, even down to his red “Crafty Cockney” shirt. He sounded like a true cockney, was such a down-to-earth guy, and always had time for his fans – signing autographs and having his picture taken with people. John and Eric had been great friends for many years, from their epic battles from behind the oches, playing for England together, to many years of holidays together abroad. They were true friends, and John could not have been happier when Eric was awarded his MBE. It’s just a shame that with Eric’s passing, he couldn’t be around to witness 177
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John being awarded his MBE too. John introduced Eric to Cynthia and I; we chatted and I asked Eric what tobacco he smoked. Eric rolled his own cigarettes and told me he liked Golden Virginia, so from my bag I produced 5 pouches of 50 grams of Golden Virginia and gave them to him; he asked why I was giving them to him and what I wanted for them. I said that I’d asked John what he smoked and he told me, so I brought these off the ship I had been on for him. He thanked me and said “Look, I have to pay you something for them”, I said “Look, in the shops these 5 pouches would come to about £90, but I get them for £12.50, so just get me and Cynthia a drink and we’re quits”. He was up at that bar in a flash, after handing the tobacco to his driver. Later that evening John was up playing darts against all and sundry and I was at the bar. Cynthia was sitting on her own and later related to me how much of a gentleman Eric was; he’d seen her on her own without a drink and had come to chat with her, asked if she wanted a drink but was assured that “Winnie was getting it”. They carried on chatting and she asked him if he ever got bored of all this, waving her hand about. Eric, having just signed another photo and having his picture taken with someone, said “Cynthia, look at me, I’m a true cockney, in here with my friend John, I’m standing in a pub with a beer in my hand, I get free beers at the bar, people come up and buy me beers, your old man even gave me a hundred pounds worth of tobacco, and I’m doing what I love, which is playing darts. The public has supported me all through my career, so it’s nice to get out and meet them in their own backyard”. Yes, Cynthia liked Eric; he’d taken the time to come and see she was OK, 178
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having only just met her. Eric was a down-to-earth guy and a true gent; I played him at darts that night up on the stage. Did I say he was a true gent? He wiped the floor with me — never gave me a chance — even checking out on the bullseye, and I gave him all that bloody tobacco! Hey, who cares, it was a great day and night out. There was a lady there that went to all their charity events; she printed off Macmillan Darts shirts with whatever writing you wanted on them; I got one done with my regiment’s name on it and some other wording relating to John Lowe and Eric Bristow. When it was completed, I asked both John and Eric to sign it for me and I raffled it off at my next army reunion for charity. Cynthia and I left the pub early the next morning and did not see Eric again, but we said our goodbyes to John and Karen. John was doing a show over on the Isle of Sheppey, and Eric was meant to be there too (this was in early April of 2018). My brother John and his wife were returning from gallivanting around Morocco and Europe in their campervan and were just boarding the ferry home. I asked John to get two hundred quid’s worth of Golden Virginia at the duty free shop onboard. Literally 10 minutes before the onboard Duty Free opened I heard, with great shock and sadness, that Eric had passed away. I called John and he thought I was joking, but sadly on this occasion I was not. The event that night still went on, with Eric’s great pal Dennis “The Menace” Priestley stepping in for Eric and again, helping the Macmillan charity. Cynthia and I had decided to go over for the night, staying in a local pub/hotel. My brother and his wife Shirley decided that they’d join us over there for the darts, and maybe get a game with either John or 179
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Dennis. John and Shirley slept in their van in the pub’s car park, after asking the landlord if it was OK. The evening went well; I played John that night, in fact the first game I’d ever played with him. Was it a memorable game? Did I beat him? Nope, got stuffed again; so much for friendship! My brother played Dennis and he too was beaten – he blamed it on not having his own darts — bollocks John, you’re just crap, Dennis hammered you fair and square! Despite Eric’s passing it was a great evening, and again the Macmillan charity gained from the night. By now I was working for BAS (The British Antarctic Survey) on their ships and I’d asked John and Karen if they wanted to come and visit the ship, maybe present them with a dartboard, and he said he was more than happy to visit the James Clark Ross vessel. Not unsurprisingly, they’d never been on an Antarctic survey ship/ice breaker. We were berthed up near Hull in the unremarkable and unattractive port of Immingham; there’s really nothing there except a port, and the nearest pub was miles away into town, which was a good tenner in a taxi. With the Captain’s permission I invited my brother and his wife too, as well as Cynthia. John and Karen were allowed to enter the docks and come onboard; they’d asked me if a friend of theirs could come with them and I said yes, so they brought a really nice old gentleman called Joe. John, Karen and Joe had the grand tour of the ship, which included the engine room and bridge; they met everyone onboard and even had a drink or two in the crew bar followed by lunch with the captain and crew. John presented a UNICORN dartboard to me and the ship and a photo was taken on the port with the ship in the background. Now UNICORN not only had dart boards around the world on land, they had them at sea, in Antarctica and the Arctic circle! 180
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Whilst in Liverpool I was working in the Birkenhead shipyard on the building of a new ship named the SDA (Sir David Attenborough), joining as a senior steward. John and Karen were doing an exhibition show of their own at a Birkenhead social club, which happened to be on a weekend. Low and behold, Cynthia was up that weekend staying with me in my apartment, so we decided to pop over the water to see John and Karen, and to have a couple of drinks. We were John’s guests for the night, and I was his “security” for the night so I got free beer. I even met up with Tom, an ex-steward mate who had just left BAS. We met at the social club and another good night was had by all. John and Karen unfortunately did not have time whilst they were in Birkenhead to get to see the new ship; I tried to arrange a tour, but because the ship was so far behind production, the dockyard hierarchy would not allow visitation by “outsiders”. Whilst on board the SDA I obtained two colour schematic plans of the vessel. I sent them to the great Sir David Attenborough, inviting him to keep one and asking him to sign the other then kindly return it to me. He not only did so, he also sent me a lovely letter, saying he did not have any plans of the ship and that it was most kind of me. I now have it framed, nicely trimmed with Sir David Attenborough postage stamps. It was whilst I was with BAS that I was diagnosed with throat cancer, and initially treated with radio and chemotherapy. But it didn’t work, and led to me later being flown back from the arctic circle and into hospital for my operation. After my operation I was given instructions to have regular checkups every six to eight weeks.
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I’d been working at Albie’s nightclub for about a year. Johnny Mac had asked me to come over and help on the door: Albie’s place in Deal had a very bad reputation with drugs, fights, underage drinkers and even handbag thefts. Johnny Mac had been pulled in to work there to clean the place up and had asked for my help; I was more than happy to do so because I regarded John as a good friend. We’d worked other doors together before and always had each other’s backs. Our first task was to stop the underage drinkers from getting in; this place was worse than Nu-age in Dover which, as you know, was nicknamed “Underage” because of all the youngsters using false ID. We clamped down straightaway: anyone who looked under 16 (yes 16, not 18), was requested to have a photo ID. We made the policy that if you looked under 16 you probably were. It’s surprising how a little makeup and nice clothes can age someone’s appearance. We were ruthless on that door, and cut down on the underage drinkers within two weeks: no ID, no entry, no arguments. It was within these two weeks that I had a classic underage person. It was 10:30-ish when a lad and his girlfriend came to the door; I could tell that they were borderline for 16 to 18 so I didn’t ask for any ID, however the young — and I mean young — lad with them looked about 13 or 14, so I asked him how old he was. He said he was 18; all three of them were now looking a little sheepish so I asked the younger lad if he had ID. He said that he had his birth certificate and produced it straight away; I was impressed as it was neatly folded away 182
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in an envelope. I opened it up and questioned him again: “How old are you?” – “18” – “Where were you born?” – “Canterbury”. This was all checking out; I then asked “Do you live at home and are your mum and dad still together?”. Puzzled, as this information would not be on the birth certificate, he looked at the other guy who said “Of course he lives at home with his mum and dad”. The younger looking guy said “Yes, of course”; I said “Good, what are your mum’s and dad’s first names?”. Now, this was on the birth certificate and anyone who’s 18 and lives at home with his parents would know their first names. The young lad’s face was a picture: he didn’t know them and was looking at the other guy for some sort of confirmation. All three of them started to look fidgety, so I said to them “I’m sorry, you can’t come in tonight”. The older lad said “Well, if he can’t come in, can we?”, indicating to himself and his girlfriend. I said “No, you were all together, so none of you can come in” and promptly sent them on their way. The next weekend, the younger lad’s mum came to the club and wanted to see me — she had her daughter with her — the girl from the week before. What transpired was that her daughter was 16 and had been babysitting her younger brother, aged 14. The daughter’s boyfriend (who was 18) arrived at the house and they hatched a plan to come to Albie’s. Using the boyfriend’s birth certificate, they were going to try and get into Albie’s with the younger lad. Well, I’d scuppered their plans and sent them packing; the mother was here to thank me and to say that her daughter was now grounded and the boyfriend was banished from the house. It also came to light that if I’d let the elder two 183
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in, they were going to leave the 14 year old kid in the car in the car park. One-Nil to the door staff! Next, we had to stop the drugs and the fighting: there were a few “undesirables” that used the club and thought that they also ran it, not the door staff. How wrong they were! We quickly stopped the drugs being sold in the club by searches on the door, and putting our own guys in the club as drinkers to look out for dealers. It was not hard to spot these guys: one, they were openly dealing and two, well, we knew all about selling and dealing drugs because we’d worked at all the main clubs and raves, so stopping the drugs being sold by these guys was easy, and anyway we wanted rid of the drug dealing competition in Albie’s so we could sell our own gear. The number of dealers and drugs we found actually surprised us; we gave dealers the choice: keep the gear and we call the police on them to be arrested, or give the drugs to us to “destroy”, and they were instantly banned. Naturally, all chose the second option and naturally, we “destroyed” the drugs. Of course we didn’t! We checked them, repackaged them, and resold them. With the competition out of the way and the club clean of dealers and their drugs, we began making cash — another bonus! The drunks and the fighting took a lot longer to conquer as no matter what club or pub you were in you were never going to get rid of drunks and people who wanted to fight. Most fights would be over women, or two or three groups of guys on the piss and someone saying something wrong or spilling a beer on someone. Drunken fights can and would start for no reason, and can quickly escalate if not nipped in the bud pretty damn quick. The old door staff were all heavy handed when dealing with 184
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drunks and fighters, and had got a very bad name with the locals. We were all new to Albie’s and I guess they thought that all door staff were the same, but they couldn’t be more wrong. We tried to stop the drunks from getting too drunk by monitoring their drinks; if they looked pissed at the bar, they were politely refused further service. This technically worked, but drunks would just get one of their more sober friends to get their drinks, so if they were caught doing this they were asked (again politely) to leave, or at least if they were caught with another drink in their hand, they would be escorted from the club. Stopping a fight before it happens is a lot easier than you think; you’d see two groups of guys eyeing each other up and you can feel the testosterone in the air. We’d go over to the two groups and talk to them, saying that we knew what was going on and if it did kick off, it would be stopped and the police called; we’d suggest that the two groups go to different parts of the club to drink; sometimes we’d even get both groups a drink to smooth things over. We’d always suggest to both groups that it was early, pissing down with rain outside, that this was the only club open in Deal, if they did get kicked out they would be barred, and as we worked at other clubs and knew other door staff, word would soon get round that they were trouble. This normally worked, at least in the first instance anyway. When women fought it was a different ballgame. Hair pulling, scratching, stiletto kicking, and glass throwing were always in the mix, so when stopping women fighting you had to be on your guard. A guy lashes out at you, you can retaliate with the same force; with a woman, if she scratched or punched you, you couldn't do it back to them, so mostly we’d pick both girls up 185
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and, screaming and kicking, they’d then leave through the back door. A girlfriend and boyfriend fighting each other would happen at least once a night; the girl would catch the guy with someone, or vice versa, and the sparks would fly. Breaking up a girlfriend and boyfriend from fighting each other is very dangerous. They could be going hammer and tong at each other’s throats, and you’d separate them and escort them to the back door (exit stage right). Now if the guy lashed out at you on his way out, you’d “restrain” him as best as you can, using minimal force of course; the girlfriend would see you manhandling her guy and start lashing out at you; invariably they’d both leave the club, only to be all lovey-dovey outside. Strange species are women. I remember one such woman punching and scratching my face as I broke up a fight between a group of “ladies” in the club. I guess there were five or six women fighting with each other; I’d been scratched quite badly on the face, was bleeding and had the beginnings of a black eye. Now I don’t mind the odd black eye from a guy but a woman for fuck’s sake that’s different, as all your mates are going to take the piss out of you. Scratches are a different kettle of fish; they look a lot worse than they are and take forever to heal; just as you get them to the scabbing stage, you knock them or get them wet, and then they are back to square one, weeping or bleeding. I hated being scratched on the face. Anyway we managed to get the women out and when Johnny Mac saw my face all scratched and bleeding, he was relentless in taking the piss out of me for the next hour or so, the bastard. Later on that evening, John and I were on the back door and the women we’d thrown out earlier were back banging 186
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on the door. John opened it and they asked to come back in; they’d all made up and were now friends again. John said no and this pissed them off so they started to vent their anger on him; he managed to slam the door on them, leaving them outside in the cold. Again they banged on the door, so I opened it and another slanging match occurred, with me indicating to the woman who’d scratched my face that if anyone was not going to be allowed back in it was going to be her, and with that I slammed the door. A few minutes passed and the banging resumed. Johnny Mac, now pissed off with these women, pushed open the door and had stuck his head out to give these women a torrent of abuse, when the woman who’d scratched me shoved half a brick into his face. He staggered back in after closing the door, and when he turned around to look at me, blood was pissing from a one-inch cut across his nose. Well, what could I do? I’ll tell you what I did; I pissed myself laughing at his nose and all the blood flowing from it; my scratches seemed minuscule, compared to the cut on his nose. I was still laughing as he pushed past me to go to the toilets to clean up, muttering the words “Fuck off, twat”. I’m guessing that was directed at the woman with the brick and not me. When he returned to the back door, there was blood on his shirt and jacket, his nose had two “steri-strips” on it to close the cut, and his eyes looked wet and bloodshot, looking as if they were going to bruise. After all, he’d taken a serious knock to the face, nose and, most of all, his ego. I promised that I would not take the piss out of him anymore and would definitely not tell anyone it was done by a woman (yeah right, as if that’s going to happen). The one good thing that came from 187
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this smack on the nose was Veronica, a middle-aged woman who was in the club every weekend – mostly Saturday nights. If you’ve ever been in a club, you’ll most certainly have seen one or two people going around selling single roses for a quid each; well Veronica was one of these people and she had the hots for John, big time. I’m not sure if she sold many roses, as she was always at the back door hanging off John’s arm. John tolerated her but had no sexual desire for her at all, however it never dissuaded Veronica from trying her luck that night and every other night that she was there. John would even get roses free from her for other women and even this didn’t faze her; she only had eyes for John and I suppose I never helped because I was always egging her on, saying that John was just shy, and that he really did like her but his macho image wouldn’t let him show his more romantic side. Each and every week I would say this and she would keep at his side, with John tolerating her because she really was a nice lady. If you had a Ferrari that was 70 years old and been through the mill, it would be dented, scratched, rusted, its paint faded, but all in all it would still be a Ferrari, well that was Veronica. She fussed over him because of his injuries and even brought him a drink; we used to drink Bacardi and Coke on the doors as it looked like Coke, so the manager never knew we were drinking. He probably did know but said nothing because his club was now a “good club” and bringing in the money. At the end of this evening, we’d got everyone out and cleared up, and as usual John and I went around the whole club looking for cash people had dropped. You kept what you found — there was no share-and-share-alike — we mostly found pound coins, 188
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but occasionally notes would be found too. It was pocket change but a game we played every week to see who found the most. The police arrived and came in to speak to John and me; it appeared the women we’d thrown out had made a complaint that when we threw them out, we’d been overzealous and that they had, in effect, been assaulted. They looked at me and John, me sporting scratches and a bruised eye and John sporting two slightly darkening eyes and a busted and taped up nose. They said “you’ve both had a busy night”, to which we replied “Not really, but these injuries were done by the women who we threw out”. They laughed, took a short statement from each of us and we heard nothing more about it. The club normally opened at 9pm but used to open early some days during the week and on a Saturday lunchtime, for the odd punter to get a few beers, play pool and darts. The owner of the club said to me one day “Winnie, how can I bring punters in here during the week to make it worth me opening?”. I suggested doing food, which would have required more staff, so that was ruled out; cheaper booze — that was a no-no – happy hours — again a no-no, for fear of pissed up people in his club with no available security. I suggested getting some celebrities in to boost the image of the club; he asked if I had anyone in mind. I knew that in Dover, Deal and the surrounding area there were a lot of pubs that had dart teams, in fact I was in one myself. I suggested getting a dart celebrity in, to do an afternoon or an evening of darts, with people paying to play them. He thought for a minute and said that the theory was good, but who could we get to do it? I said I knew just the person — John Lowe — three times world champion in three 189
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different decades and the first player ever to achieve a televised nine-dart finish. I also mentioned that he was a good friend of mine; he asked if I was joking and I said I was not, so he asked me to contact John to get them talking, which is what I did. I called John and said that my nightclub boss wanted to pay him to come down and do an exhibition show, and passed on his number. I told John to make sure to ask him for two security guys (me and another) to which he agreed. The nightclub owner phoned me about four days later, saying he’d booked John, would I do the security, and get another guy to help me. I said “no problem”, he told me the date, and everything was set up for Sunday afternoon and evening three weeks later. I met John in Deal prior to coming to the club and introduced him to Andy, the other security guy. Whenever John does a show, no matter where it is around the world, he always tries to find some place near the venue that has a dart board, so he can practice in relative peace and quiet beforehand. It hardly ever ends up happening that way, as there’s nearly always someone around who wants to play him, but that doesn’t seem to bother him much. This day was no different; John had found a little backstreet pub, asked the landlord if he could throw a few darts for a while, we had a few drinks, and John got to throw darts for about an hour. He chatted to the locals and obviously photos were taken - all in all a good hour of darts practice. We got to the club and everything was set up; John was getting paid £500 plus a hotel for the night and, although I didn’t really know how much Andy and I were getting, I’d told Andy it would be about £30. John was booked until about 9pm.
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The afternoon went well, as did the evening and it was about 7.30 when I phoned the club owner and said “Look, this is going really well, the place is busy”, he thanked me and said that John’s fee was in the till, and asked if I could I get it out and pay him at the end of the night, I said “No problem, do I get the wages for me and Andy from the till at the same time?”. “What wages?” he said. I replied “For looking after John Lowe, of course — he asked for two security guys”. Well, the owner of the club said that he assumed that as John was my friend, that I’d do it for free! I was fuming. “For fuck’s sake” I said, “I’ve got this other guy in too, did you expect him to do it for nothing?”. He again said that we wouldn’t be paid, and that we could have some free beer from the bar instead. I said that I didn’t drink when working, was not happy and hung up on him. I gave John his cash in an envelope in between games and he asked why the long face. I explained about the phone call and us not getting paid apart from being paid in beer; he said, “Look, it’s not busy, no one’s pissed, so get to the bar and drink as much as you can between now and nine o’clock. Oh, and get me a drink too”. He opened his envelope and gave me and Andy £50 each; we said that it wasn’t his problem, but he insisted. What a gentleman! Although the exhibition was a success and the owner made a lot of money, John never returned to the club, even though he was asked. He refused because his security had not been paid for; again, well done John! On the heels of the success of this venture, we were to have two more celebrities come to the club: Ross Kemp (of EastEnders fame), and footballer-turned-film-star, Vinnie Jones. This time I got paid for both of them, but that’s only because I was 191
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working at the club on the nights they appeared. The night Ross Kemp was there, my wife came to the club, as she had a bit of a thing for Ross, but even she was let down at his appearance that night. To be honest, he was a bit of a dick and full of himself. I’d introduced myself as his security, only to be told “Yeah, whatever”. I tried to introduce him to my wife but he basically ignored her, so she wasn’t happy and the word “dickhead” was heard coming from her direction. As his character worked behind the bar in EastEnders, he was asked if he would go behind the bar and pour some drinks; he said he would but you could see he wasn’t happy doing so. To be honest, Ross looked and acted well above his stature; it also looked like he didn’t really want to be there, but that he’d been booked by his agent so had been obliged to turn up. He tried to pour about three or four pints and made a complete cock-up of them all. Spirits are easy to pour but he even fucked that up. Playing the hard man behind the bar on EastEnders, yes. Reallife barman, no. If other people were impressed with him that night that’s fine, but I know Lynn wasn’t, neither were any of us who were looking after him. Vinnie Jones, now he was a different kettle of fish: a true gent, funny as fuck, laidback, would stop and talk with anyone; so much so, that my mate Greg was going to knock Vinnie out. Now here I am, looking after Vinnie Jones and my mate wants to take a pop at him, for fuck’s sake! We met Vinnie outside the club; he’d turned up in a limo which he left outside with the driver, and got out of the car with another guy. This other guy was introduced to me but I can’t recall his name; his hair was unkempt, he had stubble, was a little portly and sported a long 192
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coat. He was holding a bottle of Budweiser and for the rest of the evening his hand was never without one of those damn bottles. If Paul Gascoigne had “Jimmy five-bellies” then Vinnie had this guy. I said, “Good evening Mr Jones, I’m Brian Winton and this is Johnny Macintosh or, if you like, I’m Winnie and this is Johnny Mac”. He replied “Fuck that Mr Jones crap, I’m Vinnie, this should be fun tonight, Vinnie and Winnie” and laughed. “Just keep me and my mate in beer lads and we’ll be sorted”. I took a liking to Vinnie straight away. We led him inside, through the crowd to the stage area; his mate had already gone to the bar for a refill and to get Vinnie a drink. Vinnie climbed up onto the stage, was handed a microphone, shouted into it “HELLO DOVER!”and raised his arms aloft, in true “Rocky” style. I leant forward over his left shoulder and said into his ear, “Deal, Vinnie, we’re in Deal, mate”. He brought the microphone back up and said “ONLY KIDDING! HELLO DEAL”. The ice being broken with the crowd, he then went on a walkabout around the club to meet and greet anyone who wanted to shake his hand and have their photo taken with him – the complete opposite to Ross Kemp. Vinnie actually looked as if he wanted to be there and was enjoying himself; well, free beer and getting paid to drink it, what more could you want in life? After about half an hour I introduced Vinnie to Greg and his then girlfriend, whose name slips my mind, but she was tall, good looking (of African descent I think) and had a figure to die for. She was attractive and boy did she know it. There were two other people in the room who were especially susceptible to her charms: Greg was one and Vinnie Jones was the other. Now, 193
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although I’d introduced Vinnie to Greg, it was not Greg who Vinnie was interested in talking to; he started chatting to Greg’s woman as if Greg wasn’t even there. I have to admit that I did find it funny seeing Greg ignored and slowly getting pissed off at Vinnie’s attempts to chat up his bird. I decided that this was the time to intervene (well, to move Vinnie on), so I said “Vinnie, let me show you to your private seating area and tables”, and led the way, only to hear Vinnie say to Greg’s girl “Do you fancy joining me?”. She said that she was with Greg and Vinnies reply was “OK, bring him too”. Now, either the smoke machine was on in the club or there was steam coming out from Greg’s ears! He came up to me and said “If that flash twat keeps chatting up my missis, I’m going to knock him out”. I assured Greg that he wasn’t interested in his woman, as he had his wife Tanya at home, but Greg was not convinced and to be honest, neither was I. As I was trying to explain that my job was to look after Vinnie Jones and to stop him being attacked by anyone, Greg’s reply was classic: “Winnie”, he said, “yes, your job is to protect Vinnie Jones from harm, and the best way you can do that is to go over there, whisper in his ear and tell him to fuck off chatting up my woman. Away you go big man, hurry along, and that way you’ll be doing your job”. Well, I could see that Greg was not backing down, so I went over there and although I did not relay those exact words to Vinnie, I think he got the hint and Greg’s girl came back to him. Vinnie’s thumb was raised in Greg’s direction — all was sweet — danger over. The rest of the evening and night went smoothly, with beers for Vinnie and his mate, photographs taken and autographs signed. Vinnie and I got chatting about football, fishing, drinking and 194
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fighting. He asked a lot about my job, seemed genuinely interested in it, and enjoyed some of the stories I told about it. The evening went well but eventually it was time for Vinnie to go, so he took to the stage and microphone again and said his goodbyes, this time needing no prompting to remember he was in Deal and not Dover. We took Vinnie and his mate out to the limo and as I opened the back door for them, I noticed that there were two young girls in the back. “Hello” I said, surprised, as they were not there when Vinnie had got out. Vinnie seemed more surprised than me and said “Who the fuck are you two? Get the fuck out of my car, now”. They were shocked at Vinnie’s outburst, and said that the driver had said that they could sit in the back, as they’d never been in a limo before. Vinnie turned to the driver and gave him an earful as the two ladies climbed out of the car, but credit where credit is due; when asked by the girls for a photo and autograph he obliged; after all, it wasn’t their fault that his driver was a prat. Vinnie again thanked us, climbed into the limo, and they were gone in 60 seconds. Excuse the pun, I just had to get that in.
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I was busy working behind the bar in the Elephant and Hind, when two lads from the regiment came in, bought drinks and began taking to me about this guy (I’ll call him Paul) who’d moved back onto camp from the married quarters up at Burgoyne Heights, where all the married members of the Battalion lived. I asked why he’d moved in; had his missis kicked him out? They said “Sort of”. I asked them to explain, and they did. They said that Paul had come home drunk from the pub and started an argument with his wife. During this argument, their two year-old kid had started crying at the raised voices. Annoyed, Paul had lashed out at his wife then at the kid, punching both in the face; his wife tried desperately to defend her child, but Paul beat her so badly that both eyes were black and her nose was broken, as were some of her ribs. I’m not sure of the injuries to the kid but they did say he hit the child a few times, and not very softly either, causing bruising to the child. Needless to say he was arrested by the police, questioned and bailed, but could not return home so he moved into a single room in the barracks, whilst his wife and child were at home nursing their wounds. I couldn’t fathom why they were telling me all this, until they said that they wanted someone to go up to the barracks, get into his room (that he kept locked) and “have a chat” with him. Well, as they’d bought me a couple of beers, how could I say no? I hated bullies anyway, and attacking defenceless kids is just not on. The following night it was arranged that I would enter the barracks over the back fence from the direction of the married 196
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quarters. Getting over the fence was a piece of piss; I had done this many times when I’d been confined to barracks, for one misdemeanour or another. So I was in the barracks and made my way to the building he was in. I was met by four of my mates and we went to one of their rooms, where they gave me some gloves and a balaclava. I’d brought with me from the pub the bottom half of a pool cue, which I didn’t think I was going to use – it was a scare tactic more than anything else. I said to the guys that I’d go into the room, “chat” with him and explain the error of his ways. They led me to his locked room; it was locked from the inside as he was worried about the reaction from the guys in the block, but they weren’t foolish enough to do it themselves anyway. They backed away as I knocked on the door, with my balaclava and gloves on and with pool cue in hand. He called out “Who is it?”, I said “Guard commander, I’ve got some forms for you to sign”, then I heard the door unlocking. I barged into the room, locking the door behind me and pushing him back onto the bed. In a single room you have a wardrobe, bed, chair, table, bin and sink; I punched him in the face and said “You know exactly why I’m here”. He started to protest and tried to get up, so I punched him back onto the bed. I said “You fucking dare hit your missis and kid, you fucking coward”. I was getting annoyed now, and to my surprise he said “Winnie I’m sorry, I was drunk and didn’t realise what I was doing”. Astounded that he’d recognised my voice, I whipped off the balaclava and said “OK so you know it’s me and why I’m here”. I then said “Put your fucking hands on the sink”, so he did and I smashed the pool cue down on his fingers and heard the sickening crunch of broken bones. He screamed and slipped down, his hands coming off the sink; in a rage I dragged him 197
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back up, placing his hands back on the sink, and again smashed the cue down on his fingers. His screams got louder, but by now red mist had clouded my eyes. I told him “Grip that fucking sink you piece of shit, you won’t use these hands again to hurt anyone else”, and as God is my witness although he was in so much pain, he tried his hardest to grab hold of the sink, and again I smashed the cue on his knuckles, only this time the cue broke along with a big chunk of the sink. By now I could hear the guys trying to get in the door and Paul’s screams were fucking horrendous. He’d slumped to the floor along with the remnants of the sink and with the broken pool cue I began to stab his hand with it. With Paul’s screams and the panicked shouts from outside I unlocked the door; they dragged me outside and said “For fuck’s sake, fuck off and let us clear up”. I said “Hang on”, slipped back in the room, and, placing the cue under his chin, said “If I get arrested for this, you piece of shit, I’ll come back and kill you and that’s a promise”. I watched him nodding through his tears and pain, then left the building with cue, balaclava and gloves, jumping over the back fence, where someone was waiting on the main road to take me back into town. A couple of days later I was working in the Ellie when Sgt. Dawkes came in to have a drink. I’d rarely seen Dave Dawkes come into the Ellie, let alone stay and have a drink, so I said hello; we then caught up on small talk about my new “career” in civvy-street and his life back in the regiment. He said that all was good with him and the guys, and they were all missing me and the others “Yeah, right”, I thought; “not enough to let us back in, I bet”. Talk got around to Paul and did I hear what 198
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happened to him; I said that I’d heard that he’d smacked his wife and kid around, that he was now in the barracks but that was all. Sgt. Dawkes went on to explain that the guard patrol had found him unconscious in the bottom tray of a shower in the washroom with the shower on and his hands and fingers smashed to pieces. I looked shocked and surprised and said “No, I hadn’t heard that”, and asked if they knew what had happened, if they’d caught who did it. He went on to say that Paul couldn’t recognise the guy as he’d been wearing a balaclava. The guys in the block who’d heard the screams had seen a large balaclava-clad guy running out of Paul’s room and had given chase, but he escaped over the back fence, so they did not have anyone’s name nor any leads. Paul was in hospital and after a six-hour operation on his hands he was comfortable with his wife at his side. It looked as if he’d get a medical discharge from the army. He looked me straight in the eye and said “Are you sure that you’ve not heard anything?” I again said I had not; he said that some of the guys in the regiment — even the Sgt’s mess — had wanted to do something similar but the risk was too great. He said that the Sgt’s mess had had a whip-round and he handed me a fifty pound note, saying “IF you do hear whoever’s done this Winnie, can you give him this whip-round and thank him?”. I said I’d do my best to locate him; we shook hands and as he was leaving he said “I’d stop for a game of pool, but I don’t have the time and anyway, I heard you’re pretty handy with a pool cue”. I don’t know where he’d heard that from, as I was not that good at the game.
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Mike came to The Wheelwrights pub up in Buckland estate where I was drinking at the time; I think I was with Joe and maybe one other. Mike enquired if I’d be interested in one of those newfangled clothes washer-dryer machines; I asked how much and said I’d want to check it out first. He assured me that I would indeed be the first to see them and in fact I could have mine for fuck all. “OK” I said, “what’s the catch here?”. Mike went on to explain that I had to go and pick them up; I said “what do you mean them?”. Mike explained that a couple of his mates were bricklayers, were working on this new estate of 1520 houses being built, that they were nearly finished, and that the insides were approaching completion. All the washer-dryer machines had arrived that morning and were still in boxes in one house. As I had an open-backed van, I’d be the ideal one to drive over there and get them. “When?” I said. “Tonight”, came Mike’s reply. “Bloody hell, I’ve had a few beers, mate”. He said “You’re OK Winnie, I’ve seen you drive worse than that”. It was agreed that I’d drive the van over with someone sitting with me, then another car would follow behind, to help get the boxes into the van. We got over there in about forty minutes; I think it was up Whitfield way, although I’m not too sure; anyway we got to this new estate and it was pitch black apart from one or two street lamps being on. We all debussed but whoever was working on the site couldn’t remember which building the machines were in, and to top it all off, the bloody houses were all locked up. The guys on the site hadn’t bothered to leave us the location of the machines or at least, to leave the fucking door 200
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open. We’d brought no tools to gain entry, so someone spied through the windows and managed to locate the machines. We forced the patio doors to the house open and started to load the machines onto my van — I think we managed to get 12 or so on the back, and with my “expert” eye, I said “They’re not all going to stay on, are they?”. We didn’t even bring a rope, for fuck’s sake. The others said “Of course they will, if you take it easy that is”. So with all the confidence of a NASA astronaut flying out on the next mission just after the previous shuttle had blown up, off I went, back to Dover. Whoever had sat in the van with me on the way up had decided to go back with the others in the car. This was, he said, so that he could watch from the rear to make sure nothing was going to fall off. Well, sitting in the followup car would help me no end, wouldn’t it? It was only when we reached Mike’s place at about four in the morning did I realise what a perilous trip back it had been. The guys in the backup car were in tears; they’d been watching my driving and couldn’t believe nothing had fallen off. I’d come down Whitfield Hill, going around the little roundabouts as if I were in a car, and these boxes were swaying left and right. They said that at one stage they thought that the boxes and van were going to go over; I’d been driving with a few beers in me and hadn’t realised what speed I was doing, nor how my cargo was reacting. Anyway we offloaded all the boxes but one for myself, which I took around to my ex-wife's house. Mike had kept one of these machines for himself and another friend did too. We now needed to offload them; we looked them up and they cost about £350 each so we worked out a price on what we would do a job lot for, but we couldn’t move them as a job lot so we got rid of them separately. I’m not sure how many we got rid of 201
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before the Old Bill turned up at Mike’s and he was arrested. We’d said to Mike that we needed these moved ASAP, as moving them in at 4am must have looked slightly suspicious to anyone looking out of their window at that time in the morning. After all we were not quiet, what with the heavy lifting and the “Chuckle Brothers” in the followup car. I’m not sure if Mike was ever charged with anything; I’ll have to ask him.
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Well, this was my second tour of Iraq and I was working for Lukoil in Basra. I had already worked security in Afghanistan and this was a vaguely similar operation. The PSD (personal security detail) guys were there to look after the oilfield workers; our job was to protect them in camp, escort them to the oilfields, stay with them until they finished, then get them back to camp safely. Lukoil was a Russian firm but it was not just Russians we had on camp; it was quite multinational but even so most were Russian. The PSD guys were a mixture of Brits and South Africans plus a few other nationalities. I was paired up with a South African guy called David Sprangenberg, who was a well-built guy who always took time to work out in the gym when he could. David made a name for himself one day when out on a mission with his client; this client always had a camera around his neck and would forever be taking photos, well one day David was in the lead car with his client in the back when they approached a small village: cows, dogs, children, chickens; you name it and you’d find it roaming freely in the village and on the road. David’s client asked to stop the car to get some photos. David was against the idea as they were nearly home, but you’re there to look after the client’s wishes, so David radioed the backup car and both stopped so the client could get out for his photoshoot, with David at a respectable distance away. All was going well until a flea-bitten dog took offence at the client and began barking at him and snapping at his heels; the client tried to shoo and kick out at the dog but this just 203
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antagonised it more. David stepped in and tried to shoo it away but to no avail, and suggested the client get back in the car. The client said to hang on and began clicking away again. David found the owner of the dog and gestured for him to remove the dog or face the consequences, but the owner ignored David’s requests and even began to find it humorous. David and the client kicked out at the dog again and this time it really did go for the client and attacked him with menace — much to the joy of the owner. David cocked his AK47, aimed and fired, shooting the dog stone dead (a 7.62mm full metal jacket versus a dog’s head is really no contest). The client was ushered into the car and David mounted up in the front with an angry dog owner at his heels; David ordered the driver to get the fuck out of there and both vehicles speed off back to camp. Someone in camp had heard the shot and reported it to the control room, who asked over the air if anyone else had heard it; well, David had to own up that he had discharged his weapon killing a dog, so he was told to report to the control room on his return. When he got back to camp, he reported to the control room, was severely reprimanded and threatened with being sent home, because of firing his weapon when there was no need to. David’s defence was that he was looking after the client but was told that the dog was not a threat. The client however came to David’s rescue and said that he felt his life was in danger, had asked David to get the dog off, and David — fearing a rabies bite — had shot the dog dead. Our boss had to back down, but it left David with a bad mark against his name. Despite this he put a cardboard cutout dog on the door of his waggon, like fighter aces have “kills” on their planes, and he was told to remove this after the dog’s owner had complained and had been
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paid a couple of hundred dollars in compensation, as the dog was supposedly a purebred (yeah, right). David’s prowess with the rifle was to come into question again one week later. I was laying on my bunk chatting on Skype with the guys back in the UK. All I had on were my shorts. My rifle was hanging by its sling above my head on the wall; my roommate was also on his laptop but had his headphones on. I heard a shot ring out which was certainly less than 100 metres away, but I was not overly worried about it until four more shots rang out in quick succession. My guys said “What’s that shooting?” but I was already off my bed, grabbing my rifle and cocking it as I left the room. A couple more shots rang out from the direction of the control room area so I made my way in that direction, rifle in the shoulder, barefoot and bare-chested with my shorts on. I was joined on my right by David Sprangenberg of all people; my roommate had by now cottoned on to something occurring when he saw me cocking my weapon and running out with it. David and I made our way to where we thought the shots had come from, and when we moved it was me covering him as he moved forward, then vice versa. We came around a corner to the control room area and saw one of the Iraq guards, waving and pointing his AK47 aggressively in our direction. I noticed his safety catch was off and shouted to David that I thought this was the shooter and that he had one up the spout, or words to that effect. David understood and at that moment the Iraqi then fired another two rounds in our direction but above our heads; we ducked and coming up into the fire position we levelled our weapons at the Iraqi, who dropped his weapon on the ground and raised his hands in the air to
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surrender. We moved forward, threw him to the ground, placed plastic ties on his hands and bundled him back to the control room. Shortly after that his commander and two other guards came in and dragged the guy away. We never saw him again and heard no more about him.
Armed security work in Iraq. I loved the thrill of working there and in Afghanistan.
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SEPTEMBER 2021 COME HERE, THERE’S MORE…. Well, there could have been more, so much more. Other tales of derring-do, and even more crazy situations that I either found myself in, or got myself into, over the course of a lifetime. Alas, the cancer has returned with a vengeance, and the kicker is that due to various circumstances I can neither eat nor drink anything. Nothing! The experts have given me just weeks, and I doubt very much I will be well enough in the short time that remains to crack on with either a subsequent book, or to work on enlarging on this one. I’ve worked all over the world in some very unusual situations. Working in maritime security fighting off Somali pirates, on tuna fishing boats for months on end, based in the Seychelles. From working around the globe on superyachts worth a hundred million pounds, to working on ferries all around the UK. Being paid to courier “stuff” to the USA or the Middle East with a plane ticket and a pocketful of cash. It's been a blast and I most probably wouldn’t change a thing, even if I could. Save for the ending, of course! I’ve met some great people over the years, far too many to mention here. You know who you are.
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Anti-Piracy work took me all over the world and on a multitude of varying types of vessels.
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The Army, and in Particular the Royal Hampshire Regiment, was important to me, as was Remembrance day when I always made room to attend the Cenotaph in London with the other Tigers. 209
By John Winton - brother of Brian ‘Winnie’ Winton Sadly, my big brother Winnie passed away on 26th September, 2021. “Nine Lives and Counting” was a weirdly prophetic title. It was a work in progress and there was so much more yet to come. He was a great brother who was always there – not only for me – but for so many others too. People sometimes think I’ve had a colourful life, but it pales into insignificance compared to Winnie’s. He’d been busy writing his memoirs because he felt that others might find them interesting or entertaining. His illness and subsequent rapid decline in health meant that he was, alas, unable to commit to paper all of the unusual and often bizarre situations he’d found himself in over the years. His life was full of crazy experiences, such as receiving an invitation to stay on a millionaire’s yacht, complete with tickets to Formula One racing in the Middle East. He subsequently met up with F1 Mogul Eddie Jordan for drinks, then, purely by chance, ran into Eddie again just a week later in a random British pub. About to order drinks at the bar, he was astounded to hear “Hey Winnie, fancy seeing you here!”. He constantly endeared himself to those he met, be it celebrities or the mere stranger sitting on the stool next to him in a bar. Everyone who knew my brother has a “Winnie Story”. For me he will always be the big brother, the family man who loved his Strongbow cider, his army pals, and having a good laugh. Winnie’s self-penned epitaph reads: “My entire life can be summed up in one sentence: ‘Well, that didn’t bloody go as planned”. 210