good stories

hi nick,

love reading some of your stories and posts. sure there would be quite a few of us who would be fascinated to hear some of your stories which illustrate certain principles of fighting, or mistakes made which shouldnt have been.

cheers for your time

I'll tell you one, which was the main one that stopped me from ever drinking.

I had just got my blue belt so my brother took me out, along with his girlfriend Christine. At the club my brother bought me over a beer. I told him I never wanted to drink and he told me I had to as "Christine had bought it for me and it would be insulting not to." As was often the case I bowed down to his will and sat there drinking a "stubby." (Aussies will no what that is)

A 2nd arrived under the same guise as the first and then we decided to bail.

Christine was unbelievable to look at. It was if someone had poured her into her clothes and facially she looked a little like Farah Fawcett did (and this was the same time period)

Some half caste jackass (allegedly) said something to her on the way out. Words were exchanged between my brother and this guy on the way out so we walked accross the street, put Christine in the car, my brother gathered his police baton (given to him by a copper mate he used to work with) and he went back across to deal with them with me in tow.

The two of them had gathered on the side walk and it appeared, like us, it was also a two brother team. I was standing in front of the younger one, psyching him out (eye fucking him) and my brother was engaged in dialogue with the other one.

All of a sudden the elder one said something in a foreign language to his mate and he, the younger one, ran off.

I said to my brother as an aside "shouldn't you drop this prick now. What if the other one is getting guns, weapons or mates?" My brother told me to shut up and let him handle it. I just kept thinking this is bollocks. We should belt this prick now and go before his mate comes back with the mongol hordes. My brother, who'd had more to drink than I, just wasn't computing fast enough.

Finally the young one came running back with a stick (and now I know about FMA I know it was an FMA fighting stick i.e. right length, shape etc)

So, the situation at this point is older brother with short police baton squared off against older brother with stick and younger brother sans weapons squared off against same.

All I knew at that level was to step in and do a reverse punch to the head which was what I kept visualizing.

Next thing I know the elder brother hands the stick to my opponent while he decides to do the dramatic and remove his shirt.

I didn't think I needed to revise my plan. I figured once the other clown had his shirt off and folded the younger one would hand the stick back so I stuck with my original game plan.

Unfortunately my brother had other plans. Just as the other guy had his arms back behind him pinned by his shirt removal my brother launched his attack and started wailing on the fooker with a figure eight motion of the baton and a forward charge.

I remember thinking "ok, kick off time" and launched my step in and reverse punch at which point I walked into the stick across the side of my left temple which dropped me to my knees and seeing stars.

Apparently (I didn't see this bit but heard about it later from witnesses watching from the patio of the club) the young brother, thinking me finished, ran after my brother from behind and wrapped the stick round his head from behind, splitting his forehead open with small but deep cut.

I shook off the aftermath of the hit to the bonce and ran up to join my brother who was now in a stand off with these two. One was in the doorway trying to recover from the battering with the police baton and the other was shaped up to my brother, not really keen on getting into it with someone who'd just flogged his hero.

I arrive and my brother is saying "Side kick that fucker with the stick" which I remember thinking was dumb. If I could hear him say that so could the other prick and he'd be waiting for me to do just that. I remember saying "he just heard you...what's the point" when someone from down the road at the club called out "Tony, demons are coming."

We looked way off down the sidewalk and we could see about eight coppers hauling arse in our direction. We looked at the opposition, they looked at us, we all nodded and they buggered off one way and we went the other. We slipped into the car where Christine was waiting and we buggered off.

My brother was pissed off. Pissed that we hadn't finished them and pissed that he got hit. I told him "yes, and if we hadn't been drinking it wouldn't have happened that way at fucking all."

The next day he told me I was right and he never ever asked me to drink again (and I never did) and he cut back himself.

Nick

PS: We ran into those guys about 3 years later while I was working at a club called "Knights" on Elizabeth St. They were across the road at another club called "Pipps" so we went across and gave them round two.

cheers nick, entertaining as always and thanks for the time spent on the reply

New here , so im sorry if this is a double post on my part. Theres a famous story here about you, a tattoo shop, and some thugs. If your name ever comes up , the same thing is always said "Hes a great guy......just dont ever try to rob him" followed by laughter. Would love to hear that story from you , if you could.

Sorry mate...this one kind of fell through the cracks. I don't know which one they're referring to as it could be several. We had two jackasses walk in one day with long coats on (middle of summer) and my mate and I had chosen that moment to compare notes about our respective pistols. They saw us, guns in hand, and legged it muttering some shite about "sorry we thought it was a hairdressers."

On another occasion we caught some prick stealing my design sheets off the wall and I gave him a slap in the driveway beside the shop.

The other biggie was a bunch of black gangsta thugs turning up on a Sunday. I walked down to find one of them with a brick layers' hammer in hand threatening the brickie's dog. (small mutt, very timid, rescued recently) I said hang on a minute and went and got my 128 pound Dobermann called Ruger and said "why don't you threaten this one sweetheart?" At this point I told them all to fuck off and followed them out to the parking lot to make sure they left without vandalizing anything.

They all went to their respective cars and began pulling out their Glocks and shoving them in the waist band of their trousers and walking around posturing. I walked up to the biggest one and said "why don't you pull it? I bet I can get mine out and two shots in your head before you can even clear your waistband you fat fuck." He just looked at me as they do when they realize you're not scared of them. I just kept on hammering away at him along the lines of "I slotted bunches of you fuckers in Africa...you die like everyone else...c'mon do it, show your homies what a badass you are." etc etc.

They didn't know what to do at this point so they got in their cars and fucked off.

Maybe the people are getting more than one story mixed up, because in the shop lifting one I did slap the fooker, in another I dropped two guys who tried to jump me in the driveway (parking lot dispute and not a robbery) and the last one wasn't a robbery either.

You have to be careful with stories. One day in Melbourne one of my students was playing in a band and they were being harangued by a visiting Sydney Rugby club staying the hotel. He phoned me and asked me to help with it because he could hardly do anything in his role as drummer.

His brother picked me up and we cruised down to the pub in question and I listened to their bs firsthand. I followed four of them into the bathroom and knocked them all out. Unfortunately the manager walked in as I was doing it and I had to bugger off sharpish.

Des called me later and said by ten o'clock that night I had gained epic proportions. The "victims" who were by now awake were telling all their mates and everyone else in earshot that a guy who was at least eight feet tall, armed with a cricket bat (and I don't even like cricket ) had beaten them up (but they had sent me away with a bunch of injuries LOL)

Apparently I was 6'8 at five o'clock, 6'10 a few minutes later, seven feet tall by 6:30, seven and a half feet by 7:10 until I finally topped out at just over eight feet and armed to the teeth.

I suspect that is what's happening in this case.

Nick

You don't drink Nick? I am impressed.

The first night I ever worked on the door was a pub in Brisbane. My brother called in sick so I could work and I backed up his mate Paddy, who was an off duty cop.

The 2nd fight we broke up was between two mates. One had glassed the other one and sliced his ear off in an argument over who had first dibs on some sheila and of course, they were both drunk.

Later on I was carrying out guys who'd pissed themselves and or thrown up on themselves. There were, as one of my students is fond of saying, rivers of vomit.

I couldn't understand why I'd ever want to put myself in a position where all the hours I've spent training could be undone by some nobody because I wasn't up to par.

Later on I worked with firearms and am a firm believer that bullets and beer don't mix so I never really acquired the habit.

Of course every year I work a door some dipshite decides to give me vodka and orange juice because you can't taste the vodka (allegedly ) and every year I throw it on them.

Nick

PS: I did go through a phase here where I would sip the wife's wine trying to acquire a taste for it as I've heard it's good for cholesterol etc. Unfortunately, or fortunately as the case may be, I can't stand the taste of it.

Nick,you're totally right.In this video you can see Don Frye fighting in a Hotel lobby against Sonny Westbrook.
As you can see alcohol doesn't make a fighter stronger
http://es.youtube.com/watch?v=7OrDufcwoqg