Table Of ContentWATCH MY BACK
GEOFF THOMPSON
S U M M E R S D A L E
Copyright © Geoff Thompson 2000
All rights reserved.
The right of Geoff Thompson to be identified
as the author of this work has been asserted
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act of 1988.
No part of this book may be reproduced by any means,
nor translated into a machine language,
without the written permission of the publisher.
Summersdale Publishers Ltd
46 West Street
Chichester
West Sussex
PO19 1RP
United Kingdom
www.summersdale.com
Printed and bound by Biddles Ltd,
Guildford, Great Britain.
ISBN 1 84024 083 0
Dedicated to my late, lovely brother Ray.
God bless and rest in peace my brother.
Coventry
An industrial city is this
Prone to lay offs and strikes
Ever something amiss
Likes and dislikes alike.
The three spired city
That inspired pity
On the cap with the button
The industrious glutton.
Once a town of boom
Now amity seems to wane
I hope it’s not met its doom
The work of years in vain.
Violence seems to be waxing
It’s worrying, frightening, taxing
At times unnerving, unrelaxing,
Yet still a city of beauty
To work for her is my duty
As with naked Godiva the same.
And Peeping Tom in his shame
Who’s wrought this city’s fame,
But who has almost laid her lame?
Who is it we can blame?
Nobody is his name.
Our city is not getting smaller
Tourists flock to see
Buildings growing taller
What is, with what used to be.
Cathedrals old and new
The war has left its scar
On the greyish, dusty hue
A stoicism nought can mar.
All colours, creeds and races that congregate amid
The city and its faces
The changing Coventry kid.
Contents
Preface
7
Introduction – Peter Consterdine
11
1. Early Days
12
2. A Change in Direction
31
3. The Good
35
4. The Bad and the Ugly
48
5. No Longer the Novice
75
6. Home Visit
82
7. The Art of Fighting without Fighting
96
8. Police Involvement 113
9. It’s a Knock Out 136
10. Sweet Dreams 155
11. The Man Who Couldn’t be Knocked Out 166
12. Alternative Night 173
13. A Stitch in Time 180
14. Cash Karma 183
15. Comebacks 191
16. A Robbery at Buster’s 214
17. Falling in Love 224
18. Dealing with Women 233
19. Trained Fighters and Street Fighters 250
W A T C H M Y B A C K
6
20. The Art of Deception 272
21. Humour in Adversity 279
22. Man-made Misconceptions 301
23. The Double Tap 325
24. A Night Off 349
25. David and Goliath 357
26. Pork Pies and Pot Noodles 369
27. The Adrenal Map 380
28. A Hunt for Gold 393
29. Death? 425
30. Time to Change 442
31. The Final Encounter 453
32. Last Night on the Door 464
Epilogue 469
Afterword 475
7
Preface
. . . he’d underestimated me. I would make sure he paid for
his mistake. Whenever anyone underestimates me I always
know the fight is mine. Their weakness makes them unprepared
and gives me a window for the first shot. I train for the first
shot – it’s all I need. He was still holding the bottle of
champagne by the neck. I made a mental note – I didn’t want
to be wearing it, it just wasn’t my colour. We stood close together
as I talked, too close really, so I tucked my chin down as a
defence against a possible head butt, forcing me to roll my
eyes upwards to see his face. I got right to the point.
‘Look, I’ve never met you before and you come into my
club when I’m working and talk to me like I’m a piece of shit.
If you do it again we’re gonna be fighting.’
He was square on and badly positioned to launch an attack.
‘Oh yeah,’ he said, lining me up. ‘Sure.’
He moved his left leg slightly back and prepared me for the
champagne supernova. But he was a fucking amateur and hid
his line-up badly. I noticed immediately, it stood out like a
hard-on. It might have worked on the part timers, the lads that
liked a fight at the weekend, but I was a veteran in these
matters: seven days a week, it was my job to notice when
maniacs were trying to hit me with a bottle. I had maybe two
seconds in which to make my move before he made his. No
decisions to be made, too late for that. Hesitation is the biggest
killer in nightclub fighting. The decision had been made for
me ten minutes earlier when he told me that I sucked cocks, it
was just a matter of putting my game plan into action. Not too
P R E F A C E
W A T C H M Y B A C K
8
detailed a plan, no complications, no equations, no grapple
with morality or peer pressure, just bang him. That’s it. All this
bollocks about karate or kung-fu, about this range or that range,
bridging the gap, setting up, weakening them with a kick –
there’s no need, just hit the fuckers . . . very hard! Time was
tight and a single mistake could mean drip-food or worse. I
played the game right back and simultaneously moved my
right leg, giving myself a small, compact forty-five degree stance,
hiding the movement with,
‘That’s all I’m saying.’
Bang!
A right cross, slightly hooked, hit just above his jawbone as
his left hand lifted the champagne bottle towards me. The
contact was high so he didn’t go right out. Sometimes that’s
how it works, when the adrenalin is racing, targeting is often
off, and you only have to be millimetres out to miss the KO. It
did catch him hard though; he reeled back like he’d been run-
over. His body hit a forty-five degree angle going backwards
and for a second I thought he was in sleepsville, but no, he
back-peddled rapidly, trying to regain his composure. He was
a hardy fucker. Usually when you hit them that hard they have
themselves a little hibernation. Not this fella. He tried to stay
up and fight but it was too late, he was mine. Like I said, I
only need one shot. I followed with a rapid-fire five-punch
combination, slicing open both eyebrows and breaking his
nose. Oozes of blood flicked through the air and splattered
my white shirt. And me with no condom, too. He covered his
bloodied face trying to capture what was left of his nose. As
he cowered over I grabbed his white, stained shirt by the
shoulders and pulled him face first into the carpet – he was
9
gone. His sugar pedestal melted all around him by the rain of
my attack. He kept his face covered, so I axe-kicked his back,
many times. Too many. He was a big man to take over, but I
had no intentions of letting him back up again, not this night.
Kevin, who had been close by watching my back, stepped in
and stopped me.
A small crowd of onlookers had gathered. They whispered
excitedly. I liked this bit, especially at a new club. Suddenly I
was not the soft ‘what’s he doing here’ doorman they all mistook
me for. I was a man to be feared. I felt good about the adulation,
the back-pats and the line of free Buds on the bar like winner
cups. I felt good as the endorphins raced around my blood in
a celebratory lap of honour. I felt good that I had survived.
The blood on my shirt was my badge; I was proud to wear it
for the rest of the night. Deep down though, right in the very
bowels of my mind, there was an aching realisation that with
every blow I threw in anger and fear I was becoming more
and more like the bastard on the floor in front of me swimming
in his own blood and snot.
Mr T’s girlfriend was running around him like a headless
chicken. Collecting her man’s blood and what was left of his
face in a small cotton hanky that seemed inadequate amidst
such mayhem, screaming at me, shouting at the other doorman,
wailing for an ambulance and the police: it was all so
undignified. I didn’t give a monkey’s fuck. I was on a high.
The worm had turned – control of my fear was my greatest
ally, his overconfidence my greatest asset. He’d trodden on a
small, insignificant mound of earth and was blown to pieces.
It was a fucking landmine. He should have known.
P R E F A C E
W A T C H M Y B A C K
10
Later, many years on, I shared a beer with the guy. He still
had the scars to prove I’d been there and we laughed about
our first meeting. He admitted it was his fault and as the second
beer passed his tonsils he said, ‘I just picked on the wrong
guy, that’s all’.
11
Introduction
Watch My Back is not simply a book about violence and not a
book about martial arts, although it is written by a successful
martial artist and a man who has made violence his profession.
Rather, it is a book about coping with fear in an environment
which is a culture dish for modern society – today’s nightclubs.
The seemingly mindless violence that certain individuals
are prepared to inflict on others is not restricted only to nightly
venues in Coventry, but can now be found daily on our streets
and even the average man from those streets will find something
in this book which may at some time prove life saving. Not
‘quick fix’ physical techniques, but attitude, which in certain
circumstances may be all that will see him through.
For martial artists this book will be a bitter but honest pill to
swallow. What they follow as an art is seldom practical when
needed and it may be safer for them to face that fact and their
fears from the safety of these covers than to put themselves in
the situations faced by its author.
This book is a true tale of modern violence and its
containment, lightened by the very necessary vein of humour
never far below the surface of every chapter.
Peter Consterdine, 7th Dan
Joint Chief Instructor British Combat Association
W A T C H M Y B A C K
12
Chapter 1
Early Days
Before I recount my experiences, I think it is best that I tell
you a little of my early days. It might help you, the reader, to
understand how a man such as myself ended up working as a
nightclub doorman.
I was born in Coventry, Tile Hill actually, in 1960 to Josephine
and Kenneth Thompson. I was one of four children, three
boys – myself, Ray and Garry – and a girl, Marie-Jo. We were
all lucky enough to have enjoyed a sound upbringing with a
lovely Irish mum and a great English dad. I went to St Peter’s
and Paul’s Junior School and later on to Cardinal Wiseman
Comprehensive.
All my early life, certainly from the age of eleven, I was
plagued by the fear of fighting and confrontations. I don’t
really know why this should be. My mum reckons I’d inherited
her nerves and that it was just my way. She always reminds
me that whilst I was a very sensitive kid, I was also a bit of a
boy too. Whatever the reason, my mind felt weak and constantly
under attack from fears too powerful to fight. Doubtless I was
not on my own in this respect, but at the time I felt I was, so
I could take no solace from this. What I found to my distaste,
what really hurt, was not being scared, it was the thought of
having to live under the dominion of fear for the rest of my
life.
Many times during these cruel years I found myself sneaking
out of the back door at school to avoid my would-be antagonists
13
waiting for me at the front, then running off to the sanctuary
of short-sightedness and ignorance, only to wake up the next
morning with fear and worry ever-growing at the thought of
having to go back to school and face the ‘enemy’ again, often
having to go under the protective wing of my dad.
I vividly remember one Christmas morning sitting in my
bedroom alone and crying, worrying about going back to school
in two weeks’ time, and the misery that would then ensue. My
elder brother Garry came in and asked me what was wrong. I
shrugged my shoulders, too ashamed to admit my weakness.
My whole childhood was marred by such incidents: these sad,
scared, worried feelings came and went at will – I was, I felt,
at the mercy of my own mind.
Hope came on the horizon in the guise of the martial arts.
Bruce Lee took on all celluloid comers and held no fear. He
became my mentor and I enthusiastically, though not
convincingly, mimicked him along with thousands of other
protégés of the late great.
High on the inspiration, I started a martial arts class, aikido,
in my bid to build confidence. Life was my bully and I needed
an arsenal to defend myself. Unfortunately my efforts had the
opposite effect. If I thought the bullying was a problem I was
in for a shock when I started aikido; my real problems were
about to begin.
At first it was great. I was eleven years old and the teacher
– a very big man in his late twenties – took an instant shine to
me. I became the class pet so when he asked me and a few
other students to stay over at the centre one night, to help fix
some of the damaged training mats, I was dead keen. I asked
permission from my mum and dad. They were a little cautious.
E A R L Y D A Y S
W A T C H M Y B A C K
14
I didn’t really know why at the time, but they were, so my dad
came down to the centre to check it out. After meeting my
instructor he said ‘no problem’. He was impressed, ‘you’ll be
fine’ he assured me. I didn’t need assuring as much as he did.
When I got to the club that night there were no mats to fix and
the other lads who had been invited didn’t turn up. I should
have seen the danger signs, but at eleven you don’t, you just
trust. And anyway, there must have been another thirty people
sleeping over that night, no need for alarm. It seemed a bit
strange, but for a kid my age it was still an adventure so I
wasn’t that bothered. I’d have a good laugh and a late night. I
would really enjoy myself.
My joy was to be short lived.
It was in the middle of the night that it started. The abuse,
the invasion of my body by the cold hands of paedophilia. I
was drenched in fear. By the morning I was still crying and
still shaking. The colour drained out of my young life. A dark
depression swallowed me and turned my world a stormy grey.
Like a blackmailer the memory shadowed me for many years.
My hero, the man I adored and trusted, the man I aspired to
be, my role model, let me down. Actually, he smashed my
world apart. In the morning my eyes were swollen from a
night of sobbing. I was so frightened, so desperately scared. I
didn’t know where to turn. When he jokingly asked me why I
was so quiet, I said: ‘Someone touched me in the night’. The
smile fell off his face. He suggested that my experience was a
bad dream and that I shouldn’t tell anyone or he’d get into
trouble. He didn’t need to tell me not to blab. I had no intention
of telling a soul. I was so ashamed, so very ashamed – though
I didn’t quite know why. Just the thought of others knowing
15
about my misfortune filled me with absolute dread. It became
an obsession to keep it hidden and one day to seek my revenge.
It was my secret.
My confidence plummeted to an all-time low. Mum and
dad, blissfully unaware of what had happened, kept asking
why I had given up aikido when I was doing so well. I made
up some excuse about being fed up with it and just hoped
that they didn’t ask again. I wish now, of course, that I’d told
them. They are such lovely parents and I know they would
have handled it very gently. As it was, my bottle went and I
decided to keep it to myself.
That was the end of my career in aikido. It would be many
years before I found the courage to try another martial art.
And even then I was very nervous around adults. One day, I
vowed, I’d meet this man again and I’d be in a position to hurt
him like he had hurt me. Later, many years on, providence
placed him back into my world and I had the chance to face
him down, only this time under different circumstances.
So, my first shot at the martial arts blew up in my face like a
faulty firework. It knocked the wind right out of my sails and
for years after I never went near a martial arts class. It was
only when Ian, one of my very good friends, said he knew the
instructor at the local Shotokan club and that he was going
along to train, that I plucked up the courage to try again.
Believing the crap of celluloid martial arts was my first and
biggest misconception in the martial arts. It took ten long years
of experimenting and soul searching before I could finally
admit to myself that ‘real fighting’ wasn’t like that. Anyway, I
plodded on with the karate, conscientiously learning technique
E A R L Y D A Y S
