The Birth of Walcot ABC Boxing Club

Ernest John Rivers, always known as John ("Only my parents called me Ernest") or Jack to his close friends, was an amateur boxer in his youth. There exists somewhere a photograph in the archives of the Evening Advertiser (now the Swindon Advertiser) of him receiving a medal for his boxing endeavours. However, like me, his eyesight became an issue and, when your orbs have the focal capacity of Mr. Magoo, the punches find their target quicker than you can see them coming. And that was his boxing career over. Fast forward to the 1970's and he found himself the proud sire of one daughter and four sons.My Dad was always keen that, if any of his boys found themselves in a spot, they would be able to defend their honour. Don't get me wrong, the best advice and something he always advocated is to walk away from trouble. However, if push came to shove, he wanted to make sure that his sons had the basic skills to get their defence in first. What about his daughter, my sister, I hear you ask? Have you seen girls fight? She could handle herself. She would be all right. She kept four younger brothers in line after all!

Ken Norton v Muhammad Ali

From an early age, I liked to watch boxing and could appreciate the skill of the pugilists, bobbing, weaving, getting a jab in or an uppercut through the defence of their opponent. The heavyweight division of the 1970's had in its fold Muhammad Ali, Ken Norton, Joe Frazier and George Foreman. The fights involving these boxers were always technical, especially any featuring "The Greatest". Ali was an inspiration and I am grateful for having been alive to witness his bouts on television, especially those involving the other aforementioned protagonists. My Dad recognised my interest in the ring and encouraged me to learn the basics of the art of boxing. I am right-handed, but, due to my left eye being the stronger of the two, and having a primal urge to defend it over the much more myopic right one, my natural boxing stance is as a south paw. He taught me to keep my chin deep into my chest, tuck my elbows in to protect my ribs and to keep my guard high. Inevitably, one Christmas in the early seventies produced at the foot of my bed a boxing punch ball on a stand and two pairs of boxing gloves in the pillowcase that served as a stocking.

The competitive nature of four young boys who shared a bedroom in a mid terrace council house was

"Milling"

always to the fore in 27, Buckhurst Crescent. Games, sports - there always had to be a winner. As we got older, the playing field out the front became our Wembley, our Twickenham, our Oval and once, after the council had cut the grass and fences of cuttings had been built, our Aintree. However, it was our front garden that served as Madison Square Garden. The grass (it could never be called a lawn) served as the canvas as we, along with our friends, would take turns in sparring with one another. Without headguards or gumshields, we would pummel one another until someone threw in the towel. We would have a semblance of order with one of us acting as referee, but, more often than not, it was more like "milling" a la The Parachute Regiment than fighting under the Queensberry Rules.

If you think of the lyrics to the Madness song "Our House", that was 27, Buckhurst Crescent as we grew up in the 1970's/80's. On a sunny day, the garden was more akin to a school playground than a place of peace and tranquillity in which to appreciate the wonders of nature.When the boxing gloves came out, everyone wanted to have a go. Soon, the sound of fists flying, padded leather connecting with head and torso, and the referee trying to stop the bout degenerating into a free for all rang around the garden. On one particular day, my younger brother, Paul, took on all comers and he found himself facing the imposing form of Harold Scott. Harold was one of the youngest members of our group, but he was rather big for his age and seemed to be more than an adequate match for the youngest of the Rivers brood. However, being of a large frame, Harold's style was that of a plodding Frank Bruno compared to the fast and slick manner of my brother who was more a Sugar Ray Leonard. As Paul danced around Harold, slipping in and out of his guard and easily landing punch after punch on our young friend, his dad, Harry Scott came walking past the garden.  

The Scotts lived just around the corner in Cherbury Walk. Harry Scott was an imposing figure and his

Joel Garner

Afro-Caribbean accent was distinctive amongst the babble of Swindonian boys in our garden. He would often come and join in our games of cricket encouraging his son, Harold, to "Get behind the wicket". Harold would don the wicketkeeper's  gloves (we didn't have any pads) and set himself behind the stumps and trepidatiously await the fast delivery from his father. Harry would take an enormous run up and bowl in the style of Joel Garner; the batsman at the crease would sensibly duck or step aside to let the cricket ball whistle pass, but poor Harold, being the one between a quick retrieval of the ball or seeing it disappear swiftly down the road, would have to try and catch the missile launched at him by his dad. In this guise of tough love from father to son, it was with interest that Harry watched my brother jabbing and punching his son with no real response from Harold. Finally, having seen his son take one punch too many, Harry called for the fight to stop put on my brother's gloves and proceeded to give Harold a lesson in the art of boxing. On the one hand, it was difficult to watch Harold take a bit of a pasting from his dad, however lighthearted the intent, but it was immediately obvious that Harry was quite a skillful boxer in his own right.  

Once the lesson had been taught and Harold waited for the stars to disappear from his eyes, we fell into conversation with Harry. It turned out that he had been a boxing coach during his younger days when living in the West Indies. He asked about the whereabouts of the nearest boxing club, but, at that time, there wasn't one nearby. He said that he would like to start one up, so we suggested that he approach the local Boys Club that was down the street to see if he could set one up there. In its early years, when I was a babe in arms, Walcot Boys Club had been home to amateur boxers, but in the late seventies and early eighties, it was home to a football team only. The boxing session finished, our friends all made their way home to tea and the conversation with Harry was all but forgotten.

A few weeks later, as another sparring session was under way, Harry came by with an old friend of his, Paddy Burke. Paddy was an old Irishman, short, but from his looks and grizzled demeanour, you could tell that his life had been full of adventure. As we stopped our boxing and began to chat with them, we learned that Paddy had seen active service in the army and that he had been his platoon's designated grenade thrower being able to toss a grenade further underarm than any of his comrades could in the usual overarm manner. He enthralled us with demonstrations of his prowess by tossing our cricket ball halfway across Buckhurst field with his unorthodox technique. Further discussion led us to discovering that he too had been a boxing coach and was keen to set up a gym with Harry.

Walcot Boys Club was our sanctuary in our early/mid teens; with no money on the hip and the streets cold and dark on a winter's evening, the white, breeze block building offered the chance to spend time in the evening with your mates in some degree of comfort. The sports hall was ideal for five-a-side football and had a trampoline which allowed us to perform acrobatic skills which would have the health and safety brigade of today shutting the place down quicker than you could say Jack Robinson. The place was rundown and with us freeloading (we couldn't afford to pay subs), and no investment from the Council, it was only a matter of time before it would close. But, in those days, such problems were not our concern. Two stalwarts of the community who put their heart and soul into providing football coaching to the local boys were the late Pat "Far Post" Walsh and Brian Roberts. The Roberts family consisted of five brothers who were experienced boxers and it was Brian who we approached with the idea of helping Harry and Paddy set up a boxing club. Naturally, Brian was all for it and a trial session was set up.

At first, it was just the lads from the local area who turned up to see what the new boxing club could offer. Hurvin Morgan is a year younger than me, but we were about the same size, Donning the gloves and under the steely gaze of Paddy, we set to. Paddy was impressed by our boxing skills and asked if we had any previous training, which we hadn't. However, with my poor eyesight, I was never going to be able to progress with any sort of boxing career, and getting hit on the nose hurt, but Hurvin went on to try his hand professionally under the guise of "Kid Sylvester". Word got about, the sessions became more slick and soon Walcot ABC Boxing Club was an entity. Everything was going smoothly until, bereft of maintenance, one morning after a particularly nasty storm, the sports hall's roof leaked and the flooded floor warped as the wooden flooring dried out. Sensing the death of the boxing club, we turned to Peter Neal, landlord of The County Ground Hotel and ex-boxer and whom we knew through using the pub as a base for our after match "warm downs". He had a gym set up in the old coaching stables and it was an ideal place for the fledgling boxing club to set up home and where it still resides today.

The sparring session that sparked the idea of setting up a boxing club took place in the summer of 1980, when Punk Rock was on the wane, and the Mod and Skinhead revival was in full swing. It is heartening to know that Walcot ABC Boxing Club is still around nearly forty years later, thriving and providing an outlet for the local community to get fit, learn the art of boxing and have the opportunity to take part in competition. And to think, it all started with me receiving two pairs of boxing gloves one cold Christmas morning in the early 1970's.
     

Dr. Who - No, That's Dr. Dolittle!

Cotswold Wildlife Park

We took our annual pilgrimage to Cotswold Wildlife Park yesterday. Fascinating as the animals are, I've seen them umpteen times before, so tend to find my mind and ears wandering to the antics of the other primates on show at the park -- the human ape. The park is effectively just up the road from Swindon, so it's about a half an hour journey for my family to get there in the car. The eclectic mix of accents emanating from the transient population of humans is evidence of the park's popularity, not only from those within the UK, but also from farther afield, with visitors jetting in from around the world. As we started wandering around the exhibits on show, the comments of other visitors assailled my ears and, much to my wife's relief, I did not pass comment - except in my head...

Visitor: Look at those little otters!

Me: They're not otters, they're mongooses.

Otters

Mongooses

Visitor: Is that the anteater?

Me: No, that's a capybara.

Anteater

Capybara

Visitor: Look at that huge turtle!

Me: Tortoise.

Turtle

Tortoise

Visitor: I haven't seen a hippopotamus before.

Me: You still haven't. That's a rhinoceros.

Rhinoceros

Hippopotamus

Visitor: Aren't those meerkats sweet.

Me: Meerkats are sweet, but those are prairie dogs

Meerkats

Prairie Dogs

Visitor1: I like that wombat.

Me: You like a wallaby.

Wallaby

Wombat

Visitor2: That's not a wombat, it's a kangaroo.

Me: No, it's still a WALLABY!!!!

Growing up in the 1970's and 1980's, I watched a lot of wildlife documentaries like "The World About Us", "Wildlife on One" and anything connected with Sir David Attenborough. Going on the comments I was hearing yesterday, I must have been the only one.

Modern Britain

At one point at work last week, in the office which serves as home for eight hours of my day Sunday to Thursday, there were six of us; a Nigerian, a Romanian, a Slovakian, a Pole, a Nepalese and an Englishman. We work together for the sake of the common good of the Company and do an excellent job working as a team. As in all walks of life, there are disagreements and sometimes cultural differences cause misunderstandings, but, by and large, we are a cohesive unit, laughing and joking through the stresses and problems our industry throws at us every day. Twenty or thirty years ago, if someone had told the inhabitants of my industrial/rural town, set as a zirconia stone atop the golden Moonraker county of Wiltshire, that the demographics of the town would expand to include such a rich and diverse influx of migrants seeking economic stability and a life different to that which was their's back home in Africa, Europe and Asia, then a typical Swindonian would have looked upon such a statement with disbelief. The town had a thriving Italian and Polish community back then, but the diversity that is resident in the town now was something that was confined to the big cities of the United Kingdom; Birmingham, London, Manchester, Liverpool and their ilk.

As someone who finds anthropology fascinating, it has been interesting to see how my migrant

colleagues have adapted to their new life in Blighty. The most marked observation is in their use of language and their coming to terms with how the English they learned at school is so very different to that which is actually spoken by the indigenous Briton. Add to that the myriad of regional accents and it's no wonder that a simple phrase or instruction can be met by a blank look of incomprehension; imagine coming across someone with a broad Scouse, Geordie or Glaswegian accent for the first time and suddenly those hours of sitting in a classroom in Bucharest learning how to recite "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper" in a clipped Oxford English sibilation must seem like such a waste of time. As they settle into their new life, over time, the English of the phrase book is replaced with regional vernacular, aitches are dropped like a native and full integration is achieved when an expletive muttered under their breath is one which is in English and not their native language; I am cheered to hear one of my foreign colleagues call out "bollocks" when something goes wrong, as it means that they must be at home in their new English environment.

Tuesday 18th May 1982 - Newport County v Swindon Town

HMS Antelope explodes at the
entrance to San Carlos Water,
Falkland Islands, 24th May 1982

The year 1982 is best remembered for the Falklands War and while Margaret Thatcher was busy buying her 1983 General Election win with the lives of 255 UK service personnel in the South Atlantic (prior to the Falklands conflict she was the most unpopular post-WW II Prime Minister with only 25% of the electorate satisfied with her premiership), closer to home Swindon Town Football Club was facing the unthinkable of relegation to Division 4 for the first time in its history.

Thursday 18th May 2017 will see the 35th anniversary of the infamous date when Swindon Town visited South Wales knowing that only a win would safeguard its Division 3 status. Newport County had visited the County Ground ten days earlier when a certain John Aldridge had equalised for the Welsh side not long after Roy Carter had put Swindon ahead from the penalty spot. The draw and a subsequent loss away to Portsmouth on 15th May 1982 meant that the last game of the season away against "The Ironsides" was a "must win" affair for the Town. With this as the background, a group of us callow Swindon youths, 16, 17 and 18 year olds, decided that a road trip to the Welsh Valleys was in order. Two of the group had cars and, in order to max out the occupancy and lighten the load on our pockets, viz. petrol money, a couple of lads from outside our gang were drafted in. Given that this was in the days when hooliganism in football was rife and as ones who were only interested in going to watch the football, we were keen to stay away from trouble. However, the vetting process was along the lines of "Are they all right?".
"He's a bit of a nutter, but he's fine."
"Can he afford the petrol money?"
"Yes."
"He's in."

The M4 wasn't as crowded back in the eighties as it is now, but a great deal of Swindon seemed to be heading west that evening. Scarves trailing from car windows, this wasn't a cheery day out to Wembley, seeking glory at the fabled Twin Towers, this was to be a grim do-or-die affair in the land of Welsh Steel where anything other than a win for the Robins would spell an ignominious drop to the bottom of the Football League.

We spent the time chatting and getting to know the new members of our "Band of Brothers". As the cars ate up the miles and the Severn Bridge loomed nearer, it was becoming clear that at least one of our new brethren was one of those 80's football fans whose main interest seemed to be to visit new and interesting places, greet the inhabitants and then beat ten tons of  brown stuff out of them...only when within a group of like-minded fellows, though. My thoughts were that this didn't bode well.

Having crossed the Severn Bridge and with Cardiff receding in the rear view mirror, the M4 snaked its way towards Newport. You could smell the old Welsh city set astride the River Usk before you could see it. Towards the south east of the city was the enormous steelworks and it loomed large out of the nearside car windows. Dominating the horizon, the smoke and steam spewing from the chimney stacks and cooling towers lent it a menacing appearance, and it gave me a sense of foreboding that only Frodo Baggins could have appreciated as he approached Mordor and the Crack of Doom.

Somerton Park - Old Home of Newport County

Turning off the motorway, the only place to park by the ground was in the nearby side streets. Leaving our transport where we hoped we would find it safely after the match, along with other Moonrakers, we walked to Somerton Park, home of Newport County. I wasn't expecting much in salubrity from the football ground, so I wasn't disappointed on first seeing the home of the Ironsides. It resembled something that had been thrown together out of what could be found off the steelworks slagheaps and old Anderson shelters. Corrugated iron was definitely de rigueur in this part of the world and the open, windswept terracing easily accommodated the travelling red and white army from Swindon.

The atmosphere was boisterous amongst the away fans, but there was an overwhelming sense of tension in the air. The local constabulary didn't help matters when they sent in a number of their order to try and quell the mood in the adopted Town End and scuffles broke out between the roughnecks from Swindon and the police from South Wales. One poor, unfortunate, young copper found himself alone at the back of the terrace and, rather than draw his truncheon to frighten off the Wessex Yobbery, he adopted a karate stance. Within seconds and like a pack of African hunting dogs, he disappeared under a pile of flailing arms, fists and boots from the Swindon thugs.

Swindon Town FC Squad 1981 - 1982

Meanwhile, a football match had broken out on the pitch. My abiding memory of the game was that Newport had to deal with wave after wave of Swindon attacks. But, try as they might, the Reds could not find the net; Paul Rideout came closest by hitting the post. A counterattack by Newport later in the second half led to a handball from Roy Carter in the box and the subsequent penalty was put away on the 81st minute. Nine minutes later and Swindon Town had fallen through the trapdoor to Division 4.

During the excitement of the match, our group had been split up, so we made our way back to the cars in a subdued mood and waited for everyone to appear. Not surprisingly, the new, brash member of the gang failed to show and we were told that he'd been arrested. We drove in our little convoy of two cars to the main police station only to be told that he would be up before the magistrates in the morning so we would be better off going home. The older terraced houses of the city all seemed to still be burning coal and the fug they produced swirled around the garish yellow streetlamps adding to the sombre mood as we followed the signs to the M4. The unthinkable had happened and the following season would see Swindon Town being tested in the lowest division of the Football League.

It doesn't seem like that road trip was 35 years ago. It is sad, disappointing and inconceivable that the club is back in the same position in 2017 as it was in May 1982. It would be another two years before the inspirational appointment of Lou Macari as player manager saw the upturn in fortune for the club which was to culminate in its only season in the top flight of English football in 1993. What is needed now from Lee Power is another inspirational appointment and a similar investment in the team if Swindon Town is to be able to climb up the Football League and emulate the Macari/Ardiles/Hoddle era.

       

Term Time Holidays

The judgement given on 6th April 2017 in The Supreme Court in the case of Isle of Wight Council (Appellant) v Platt (Respondent) seems to have put to bed the argument of when a child can be taken out of school for a term time holiday. Section 444(1) of the Education Act 1996 states:

444
Offence: failure to secure regular attendance at school of registered pupil.
(1) If a child of compulsory school age who is a registered pupil at a school fails to attend regularly, his parent is guilty of an offence. 



The Supreme Court considered that "regularly" in this provision could mean: (a) evenly spaced; (b) sufficiently often; or (c) in accordance with the rules. Subsequently, it was decided that the meaning was "in accordance with the rules prescribed by the school". Therefore, the school can set out the rule that a child must attend "regularly" insomuch as that a pupil is expected to attend every day of the school year unless exempted due to one of the statutory reasons for authorised absence.

So, does this mean that the recourse for legal satisfaction for those parents choosing to take their children on holiday during term time is over? It can be argued that the answer is "no" as there are two Acts of Parliament on the statute books that may be of help in this matter, namely the Human Rights Act 1998 and the Equality Act 2010. The argument set out below will put forth how these two laws allow some parents to be able to claim that, by not being allowed to take their children out of school during term time for a family holiday, they are suffering discrimination.

The Human Rights Act 1998

The Human Rights Act 1998 safeguards fundamental rights for all citizens of the United Kingdom. One of those rights is set out in The First Protocol, Article 1 and concerns the "peaceful enjoyment of...possessions", protecting a person's right to peaceful enjoyment of their property without interference from the state:

The First Protocol

Article 1

Protection of property

Every natural or legal person is entitled to the peaceful enjoyment of his possessions. No one shall be deprived of his possessions except in the public interest and subject to the conditions provided for by law and by general principles of international law.

The preceding provisions shall not, however, in any way impair the right of a State to enforce such laws as it deems necessary to control the use of property in accordance with the general interest or to secure the payment of taxes or other contributions or penalties.

"Property" includes money and, according to the above, a UK citizen has the right to "enjoy" their money and spend it it as they wish providing the disposal of that income is within the bounds of the law.
Also contained in the Human Rights Act 1998 is Article 14 which sets out the boundaries for the prohibition of discrimination: 
Article 14 Prohibition of discrimination
The enjoyment of the rights and freedoms set forth in this convention shall be secured on any ground such as sex, race, colour, language, religion, political or other opinion, national or social origin, association with a national minority, property, birth or other status. 

So, from Article 14, it can be argued that a UK citizen is protected from being discriminated against on the basis of their "property", or, therefore, the level of their income.

The Equality Act 2010

The Equality Act 2010 was enacted to bring together all the existing laws at that time that dealt with discrimination, harassment and victimisation. It sets out the personal characteristics that are protected by law and the behaviour which is unlawful:

Chapter 1

Protected Characteristics

4 The protected characteristics

The following characteristics are protected characteristics-

age;

disability;

gender reassignment;

marriage and civil partnership;

pregnancy and maternity;

race;

religion or belief;

sex;

sexual orientation.

So, if a person is treated differently to others on the grounds of one of the above protected characteristics, they can claim discrimination.

Argument

In the case of taking a child out of school during term time in order to take a family holiday, how can a parent claim discrimination if they are then subsequently fined by the local education authority and face prosecution in the courts if they refuse to pay the fine? As outlined above, the Human Rights Act 1998 and the Equality Act 2010 safeguard UK citizens from discrimination and, using these statutes, some parents can claim that they are directly discriminated against by not being allowed to take their children on term time holidays.

 Human Rights Act 1998

Prices for holidays rise dramatically during school holidays and many parents find the cost of taking their families away when schools are closed prohibitive. Below a certain level of income, the only way that these families can enjoy the luxury of time away, something that wealthier families take for granted, is to take their children out of school during term time and risk the chance of a fine or prosecution. 

As indicated earlier, the Human Rights Act 1998 gives "every natural or legal person" the right to "peaceful enjoyment of his possessions", which includes his "property". Money is included in the definition of "property" and the Act allows a person to dispose of their income without interference from the state. Therefore, a parent should be able to choose what to spend their money on without fear of a local authority dictating how or on what that income should be spent. So, if a parent has a level of income such that they can only afford to pay for a family holiday during term time due to the prohibitive hike in prices when schools are shut and the local education authority forbids it, then the parent can claim abuse of their human rights:

1. Under The First Protocol, Article 1, a local authority is interfering with a person's right to peaceful enjoyment of their property (money) if it dictates when a family holiday can be taken and, therefore, how a person must spend their money
2. Under Article 14, by dictating when a parent can take a family holiday, a local authority is discriminating against a person by virtue of that person's property (level of income) 

The Equality Act 2010

As stated above, a person can claim discrimination under the Equality Act 2010 if they are treated differently due to a protected characteristic. One of those protected characteristics is "religion or belief" which includes lack of belief in a God. 

One of the statutory reasons for authorised absence is taking a child out of school in order to celebrate a religious festival of a religious body to which the parent belongs. All faiths and creeds are catered for in this reason for authorised absence apart from those who do not hold a belief in any deity. If someone is an atheist, then they do not have a set date in the calendar when they can celebrate their "belief". Therefore, if an atheist family joins a body set up to celebrate their lack of belief in a God and then wish to take time off during term time to celebrate their atheism, and the local authority forbids it, then the parent can claim discrimination under the Equality Act 2010 due to being treated differently due to their "religion or belief"; this is also protected under the Human Rights Act 1998, Article 14 (see above).

Conclusion

A parent can claim discrimination by a local authority if that parent has a level of income such that they are unable to afford to pay for a family holiday during the school holidays and the local authority fines them for taking their child out of school during term time when the cost of a family holiday is cheaper. In this case, the local authority is dictating how a parent must spend their money and is, therefore, interfering with the parent's peaceful enjoyment of their property in direct contravention of the Human rights Act 1998, The First Protocol, Article 1 and Article 14.

A parent can claim discrimination by a local authority if that parent is an atheist, belonging to a atheist body and, in taking their child out of school in order to observe that atheism, the local authority deems that absence to be unauthorised. In this case the local authority is interfering with the parent's right of "prohibition of discrimination" on the grounds of their "religion or belief" in contravention of the Equality Act 2010, Chapter 1, Protected Characteristics and the Human Rights Act, Article 14. 

I am not a lawyer and do not have a law degree. However, anyone can peruse the Acts of Parliament and determine how that Act should be interpreted in a particular circumstance. Lower income families will always suffer at the hands of so-called "market forces", but when those "market forces" directly dictate that their family cannot enjoy a holiday together purely because the travel industry wants to squeeze more profit out of their customers during school holidays, then it seems that the poorer families have a legitimate claim for discrimination. I have set out above arguments for using current legislation to counter this inequality, however, it is for richer persons than I to take this argument through the courts to determine whether my arguments have foundation in law.