Free Born to Fight--The True Story of Richy 'Crazy Horse' Horsley by Richy Horsley

that appearance they made on live television, where they hurled a load of swear words at the host of the show.
    When my mate dyed his hair, we all laughed and took the piss but, to give him credit, he didn’t give a fuck. And that was what punk was all about. One night at the disco, my mate went up on the dance floor and started doing what was called the ‘pogo’. I don’t think I need explain what that one was all about. Everyone used to laugh at him because he was the first one to do it, butsoon enough it became all the rage. It wasn’t long before even yours truly dyed his hair. Along with my hair colour, my company also changed, and I started knocking about with a different crowd, with a rougher edge. A couple of the lads, Measor and Waller, had both just been released from detention centre. I knew them from school, before they had served time in Her Majesty’s establishment for naughty boys. We often went to each other’s houses to listen to any new singles or albums by The Clash, Sham69, X-Ray Spex, Sex Pistols, Angelic Upstarts, and so on. We bought guitars and a microphone so we could start our own band. Measor obtained a set of drums, using a loan from a bloke called Ken.
    Punk wasn’t just about music. It was about fashion too. We would wear T-shirts with obscenities scrawled on them; coats and trousers were ripped to bits and held together with safety pins and the odd zip. Measor and I wore a padlock and chain around our necks, just like Sid Vicious. I threw mine away though after an incident outside the youth club. Measor was having a fight when his opponent grabbed hold of his chain and started trying to choke him with it. The fight was soon broken up, but still, fuck that, I thought, I don’t won’t to be a fashion victim, and never wore one again.
    If punk was about anything, it was being different to everyone else. I went to a hairdressers called ‘The Knut House’ and got a skinhead-style haircut, and I then hadcoloured blond hair with red question marks dyed into it. I was over the moon with the finished result, as it was completely different to what anybody else had. I didn’t half get some funny looks from people. I had it like that for about a month. I wish I’d had my photo taken so I could show people it now and have a laugh about it.
    Just like the rockers and the mods a generation before, the punks were firm enemies with the bikers. We started going to a youth club that was full of bikers, all of whom were older than us, all in their early twenties. They fucking hated us and we loved it. We introduced punk up there. The DJ started playing a couple of punk records for us, which we would dance the pogo to. Inevitably we’d get drinks chucked over us, resulting in a fight, which would always escalate out of control. There were some enormous fucking bikers, I can tell you, but we always gave a good account of ourselves.
    I started seeing one of the biker’s girlfriends on the side. Although she wanted to keep it quiet, it wasn’t long before he found out about it. He came looking for me one Saturday afternoon with a couple of gorillas. I was with Measor, and they spotted us walking back from the town. They expected me to bolt off, but instead I started walking towards them, fucking up for it. He was taken aback when he saw that I didn’t give a toss about him and his mates. He asked if I wanted to fight, so I calmly responded that I did. As we scouted fora place to scrap, I looked at one of his mates, whom I knew was a right handy fucker, and nodded down at his Dublin boots. I cheekily said to him, ‘I suppose I’ll be getting a taste of them, will I?’ He went off on one, wanting to start it there and then, but it was too busy. We eventually found a bit of wasteland, which is now the site for a doctors’ surgery and health centre – ironic, I’m sure you would agree.
    I slowly took my denim jacket off, carefully undoing each button as I looked deep into his eyes to let him know