The scenario where the sprawling anti-hero gets his comeuppance and the champion walks off into the sunset with his arm around the prize, usually a woman, is a pleasing one. This media personification of what a hero is all about used to be the common norm. Examining past events can confirm this convoluted outlook that sees the baddie being portrayed as some sort of evil manifestation sent to cause havoc by any means possible.
Most of the pubs had barred Des, but he came in to the Tiger bar and he points to me and says, ‘And you, out! I want you by the back of the car park.’ So I obliged him and proceeded to kick the poor cunt all around the car park, he ended up in hospital for a week! Eventually, when he came out of hospital he said that I was the best thing that had happened to him, I’d cured him!
As one of the motorbikes came towards me, I let a big heavy right go, and knocked the rider’s head clean off his shoulders! Fucking hell, the guy’s head was still in his helmet and it was clattering all the way down the road.
These near death escapades didn’t put me off working in violent situations. If trouble happened then I couldn’t stop to think of what might happen. There were some good people about and my job was to protect them from trouble, I couldn’t let past experiences put me off.
As much as Merthyr is a fighting town, these people also have hearts of gold. I worked all over Monmouth, and then the Aberfan disaster happened! That was a very emotional episode in my life. I never want to see anything like that ever again! In my opinion, the tip should have been moved well before the rain got in to it, and the old tip came rolling down the hillside on the school and the walls just caved in!
Although I had committed just about every sort of assault imaginable on people and even the odd one or two against the police, I still had and still do have respect for the old school policeman.
Remember, I was only in to fighting; I wasn’t a high-ranking underworld figure selling the Crown Jewels! I wasn’t the Merthyr Mafia and I had no connections with the goings on of petty criminal matters.
He caught me neat, right on the fucking face and I took one step back and thought, you’re not getting away with that you bastard! I was punching the piss out of him, he kept going down, but I didn’t kick him, he’d had enough. I didn’t put the boot in to a man older than myself. But this confrontation was out of the blue, out of the fucking blue. That’s what I had to face.
Everyone in the valleys knew me and because of that, so many people used my name in the valleys that there must have been at least a hundred times a night that the name ‘Malcolm Price’ was used.
I never knew any of these people who were using my name, if I had a fiver for every time my name was used for protective purposes by these people to ward off trouble then I’d be a millionaire many times over by now.
There was just one cheeky bastard in the club that night and it started World War Three. There was a bloodbath down there, they all got locked up, and the police dogs didn’t need feeding for a week after that.