By Dave Sutherland
Apart from a brief flurry of interest around 1958/59 I haven’t really gone much on the noble art of boxing. However during that period I did read quite a lot regarding the major exponents of the sport at that time as well as stories about some of the major characters of the years gone by. I would tune into the BBC Home Service every Monday night to listen to whichever live fights were being broadcast and I would endeavour to be near a television set on a Saturday lunch time to watch the amateur code. At the same time however my interest in football was becoming all consuming and very soon it had pushed boxing almost entirely out of my thinking and the only legacy with which it left me was a lifelong admiration of the late, great Henry Cooper whose fights I still followed right up to his final 1971 defeat by Joe Bugner a result that is still hotly disputed to this day. More recently I have taken an interest in the career of Carl Froch due to him being a Nottingham lad and a genuine Forest supporter (I know, I had to stand aside as the stewards cleared the way so that he could drive his 4 x 4 into the member’s car park before the Oldham cup tie a couple of seasons ago. His presence didn’t help us that day as we slipped to an embarrassing 3-2 defeat).
As St James’ Hall was a custom built boxing and wrestling venue it was pointed out to me in the early stages that I would be expected to be on duty for the boxing as well as the wrestling along with the sombre statement the there wasn’t much money to be made on a boxing night. In fact so paltry the return on a boxing occasion that it was not unknown should one of these events fall on either a Monday or Wednesday night during term time then I would attend my night classes at South Shields Marine & Technical College doing ‘O’ level English, which I finally achieved, and Mathematics, which floored me entirely and I have never in the last 50 years had recourse to use, rather than undertake my ice cream round. The reasons for the scant return on such nights were due to a number of factors and the main one being the different clientele; taking into account that the average weekly wage in the North back in 1965 was around £10 per week and ringside seats were two guineas (£2 2/-, £2.10p, €2.60) therefore having paid that much money there was no way that the punter would want some scruffy oik with an ice cream tray blocking his view especially with shorter rounds than in wrestling therefore walking around the front rows of the ringside area was strictly forbidden. Boxing wasn’t a family outing like the wrestling and thus with less children for whom to cater resulting in less demand for our stock; also, having never tried it, I imagine the mixture of a Havana cigar and a choc ice must be a fairly revolting combination.
While even at my busiest on the trays or the hot dog stand on wrestling nights I could always bring to memory some aspect of the evening’s action but as far as the boxing is concerned I can remember very little other than the two major fights at which I was required to work. Both were quite tasty in the world of boxing at that time and the first one, in October 1964, drew a capacity crowd to witness the main bout of the evening which was a featherweight scrap between Frankie Taylor, one of the brightest young talents around, against George Bowes who, being from Hartlepool, was almost a local hero. What I could see among the heads and bodies that even lined the walkway between the back seats of the ringside and the ring itself was that Taylor looked like he had been watching the likes of Chic Purvey who would make it a mission to get themselves disqualified in as short a space of time following the opening bell. Excessive use of the head and a marked reluctance to break on the referees command was not endearing him to the already partisan crowd and in the seventh round one discrepancy too many saw the referee losing patience and sending Taylor back to the dressing room while Bowes was left to take the plaudits in a popular if somewhat unexpected victory. Taylor was to go on to become a highly respected boxing journalist – so I wonder how he viewed his own lack of discipline on that night?
The following April provided by far the most memorable night in this series when we saw the return of Alan Rudkin who had just been crowned British and Empire Bantamweight Champion and was just about the hottest property around among the lighter men. As if to underline my comments earlier, Rudkin had been on the same bill as Taylor and Bowes but I have no recollection of it! He was matched against the Spaniard Mimoun Ben Ali, not exactly a household name however Independent Television had decided to screen the fight live and the inter – round summariser would be none other than the great Henry Cooper. Bearing in mind that this was 1965 and smack in the middle of the swinging sixties and Rudkin’s home town of Liverpool was at the centre of this revolution which was witnessing The Beatles, Cilla Black, Gerry and The Pacemakers, The Cavern and Liverpool AFC sweeping away the last remnants of post war austerity. This was typified by the arrival of a sizeable group of Scousers who had hired a coach to come up to Newcastle for the fight and who all had seats together in the third and fourth tiers of the ringside seats at opposite end of the Hall to the stairs. Since the live television broadcast had imposed a marked reduction in paying audience these lads really stood out especially when their local hero entered the ring and whenever it was deemed that he needed a bit extra encouragement they would take up the chant “RUDKIN – clap, clap, clap; RUDKIN – clap, clap, clap” as St James Hall was transformed into Anfield’s Kop. This was not appreciated by the purists whose affronted cries for them to keep quiet were pointedly ignored and they continued until their man cruised to a routine points win after ten rounds. As rowdy and boisterous as these guys were they were certainly preferable to some of the younger, wide boy types who attached themselves to the boxing scene. Apparently having come up from London in the company of some business venture or other I remember one asking if on my stall I had “change of a nicker, mate” or the two who tried to get me interested in what they claimed was a valuable watch with a view to selling it to me. On my hot dog commission; yeah right!
At the end of the night upstairs as we put our stuff away, out of the office came Henry Cooper and waited at the balcony at the top of stairs until his colleagues joined him. Although I didn’t have my wrestlers autograph book with me I did have my pocket diary, having come straight from work, which I proffered with the polite request for him to sign. Not to be outdone Terry our junior member of the catering team grabbed one of the greaseproof sheets that I used on which to place the hot dogs as I served them to my customers; sheets that bore a strong resemblance to Izal. This comparison was not lost on the great man who upon having this paper thrust into his hand he surveyed the crowd that had gathered around and remarked “I hope that whoever you are getting this autograph for doesn’t use the paper for what it was intended”
For me however the main drama of the evening took place long before the main event began; as I stated earlier I had gone to the Hall straight from work and the walk from the CWS Offices to Gallowgate would only take fifteen minutes knowing all the shortcuts so even stopping for a cup of tea at one of the little cafes nearby would still see me at St James at around 5:30pm. Naturally arriving straight from work meant that I would be dressed in suit, shirt, collar and tie and greeting me in this attire, as opposed to my weekend garb which was supposed to reflect that period in history, Mr Welch the Hall Manager saw a golden opportunity and asked me would I patrol the foyer until he was ready to do his front of house. My instructions were that the door remained closed and nobody got in before the official opening time; even those who reckoned they were the higher echelon on a Saturday night. Standing around like a spare part for most of the time seemed simple enough until my reverie was rudely interrupted by a loud and authoritative knock on the main door and opening it I was met by a party of men all expensively dressed and coiffured wearing camel or full length leather coats. “Mr Welch’s office” barked the leader which was more of a statement than a question and as servile as possible I indicated to the top of the stairs. Seconds after this group had filed past me a more slightly built young man wearing an overcoat at least one size too big for him, one of those Robin Hood trilbies that were in fashion around that time and carrying a leather holdall also entered the foyer and looked around somewhat nonplussed by the surroundings. This was my chance to exert my authority and I prepared to make a step forward to advise him to wait outside until opening time just as one of the pack on the stairs called out ”Dressing rooms upstairs as well, Alan”. Had I managed an emergency stop with such timing and precision whilst taking my driving test the examiner would have passed me on the spot as I allowed the young Mr Rudkin to make his way upstairs unimpeded while also reflecting on how embarrassing the confrontation might have been.
During my time on the ice cream trays I have needed to take rapid evasive action as Barry Douglas was thrown under the bottom rope feet first into my direction as I swayed left and right trying to keep myself and my stock intact much to the amusement of the audience. I have been brusquely ordered to “Get out of my way” by Barry Cannon as I approached the top of the stairs one night in order to commiserate with him on his defeat. I have felt the full weight of The Zebra Kid on my shoulder as he warned me not to tell anyone that he was just about to leave the building and I have been closely and balefully scrutinized by the mighty and fearsome Paul Vachon after his young son had purchased a drink and ice cream with the exact money but still expected some change.
Wrestling Heritage 