# Saturday Night Punchup! Part II.



## Cpt Dick Brooks (May 13, 2013)

I was on night shift, many months after the first street fight outside the Manor House Ballroom, and was again lucky enough to score the coveted position of being the observer in the east area patrol car. Having just taken care of a fight in one bar in the town centre, we were on our way along Crown Street after dropping off a constable and his arrest at the police station, when Bravo Control called us up on the radio.
Apparently, there had been some kind of altercation at the St. Helen's Café, on St. Helen's Street, where a young black man had been punched in the face by a white, leather-jacketed youth. As we sped towards the scene, I noticed as we passed over Major's Corner one of the foot constables talking with Tommy Adams.
Once we arrived at the St. Helen's Café, I went up to the young black man sitting at one of the tables with two young white women, and asked them to describe to me the person who had punched him in the face. When one of the girls drew a diagonal line with her finger across her left cheek from her ear to her chin, saying that he had a scar like that, then I knew for sure who it was.
"Stay here!" I told them, then asked my driver, Ro-Ro, to take down their particulars. I left the café and ran as fast as I could towards Upper Orwell Street, where it joined Major's Corner at the traffic lights.
The young police constable was questioning Tommy Adams about another totally unrelated matter, when I jumped him from behind and caught him in a full head-lock, cutting off his air supply until he stopped struggling.
"Come with us!" I shouted over to the young constable. "You can take over from Ro-Ro... taking the names and addresses of the victims of this bastard, so we can get him locked up in the cells."
On hearing this, Tommy Adams struggled even more, until I squeezed his neck and quietened him down a little. With his arms flailing out beside us, I dragged him backwards by his neck to the St. Helen's Café and thrust him in front of me inside the door.
"Is this the yob?" I asked the young black man sitting at the table.
"Yes, that's him," he said while mopping the blood from his nose with a fresh serviette the waitress had just given him.
"That's the bastard!" one of the girls shouted, and struck out with her handbag, catching Tommy Adams across the face. "Look what he's done to my boyfriend!"
"Give your details to this constable, so we can take this piece of garbage back to the station and bang him up for the night." I looked at her. "I'll be around to see you next week for a statement, so I suggest you take this lad to Anglsea Road Hospital and get him booked in Accident and Emergency... it looks like his nose is broken."
When I got Tommy Adams in the back of the police car, he started flailing his arms about, trying to get free. I squeezed his neck until he went limp again, and held him in this tight restraint as Ro-Ro drove us to the police station.
After passing under the arch into the rear parking area by the custody-sweet, I dragged Tommy Adams out of the back of the police car. Holding him firmly in the full choke position, I restrained his flailing arms and marched him up the concrete ramp, and before the custody sergeant at his desk.
When I released Tommy Adams in front of the custody sergeant, he got to his feet, looking for a way to run out into the street. Before he even took a step, I had him once more in the full choke position of a headlock.
"We can keep playing this game all night, if you want, Tommy-Lad. It's your neck that will pay the bill." I looked down at the top of his skull and squeezed until he went limp. "You want to play some more games of patter-cake with me? You only have to ask me nicely."
Once he realised that he was going nowhere, he quietened down to be processed, before being locked in the cells for the night. Two weeks later, he went in front of the magistrate and was sentenced to eighteen months in Norwich Prison, once his previous convictions of violence towards black men were taken into account.

A few months later, I was on point duty at the Mulberry Tree traffic point, when I saw Charlie Dozzel walking along St. Margaret's Road towards Woodbridge Road. I stopped all the traffic at the junction and beckoned him to come over towards me in the middle of the road. He hesitated at first, then plucked up courage to walk out into the street to see me in front of all the stationary traffic.
"Have you just got out of Norwich?" I asked him.
"Hellow, Dick. How are you?" he greeted me. "Yea, last week."
"I've got some good news for you, Charlie," I told him with a grin.
"Go on!" He looked back at me. "What's up?"
"I just put your mate, Tommy Adams, away for eighteen months for beating up another black man."
Charlie Dozzel looked at me and laughed, putting out his hand for me to shake it. "Thanks, Dick, You've just made my day!" He looked at me again. "When was this?" he asked.
"A couple of months ago." I nodded my head to him to confirm what I'd said. "It will be sometime before he starts beating up black men again."
"As I said, Dick, you've made my day... for sure." He laughed along with me. "I'll get you a pint, the next time I see you in town."
With that, he waved as he turned and walked back to the pavement, then headed up Woodbridge Road towards his house. I waved on the St. Margaret's Road traffic, and the moment was past.

Some years later, after I had left the police force and was chartering my second ship, Biche, out of Ipswich all over the North Sea and English Channel, I went into a pub overlooking the Lairs with one of my crew, Leon Pugh, to watch a band that a mate of his was playing in. Who should come up to me in the bar and offer me a drink, but Tommy Adams.
The scar on the left side of his face was still red and raw, but other than that he'd simmered right down. He thanked me for locking him up for eighteen months, because he was going right out of control. He confided in me that if I hadn't put him away, he would be dead by now... the way he was behaving. He handed me my pint of beer and shook my free hand, before disappearing back into the crowd. All the best, Cpt Dick Brooks.


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## ccurtis1 (Aug 16, 2007)

Very sobering programme on Channel 5 last evening, "One Punch Killers"


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## Cpt Dick Brooks (May 13, 2013)

*For ccurtis 1.*

Good to hear from you, ccurtis 1, and your point of view. I missed that programme, as I was watching Channel 66 Reality at the time. During the sixties, Ipswich was at the centre of much that was going on in the country. With four American airbase around the town, there was even a U.S. style bar for the G.I's., called 'The Running Buck'... and there were U.S. MP's patrolling the town centre. This caused much discontent with the local yobs, as the young girls were drawn towards the Yanks with their PX stores on base. And there was always the underlying presents that Suffolk was the biggest depository of nuclear weapons in Western Europe... attracting the imminent threat of a pre-emtive strike against Ipswich by the Soviets.
The blacks were running all the drugs and prostitution at the time from the Coach and Horses public house, with a very active Red Light District down Clarkson Street. It was straight out of Hamburg's Reaper Barn, with scantily dressed young girls sitting in red-lit windows, touting their trade. 
The foreign seamen thought nothing of coming up to a young Bobby and asking for the Red Light District. I would direct them to the nearest taxi rank, to swiftly take them there. To fuel the flames, there was a very active foreign Ship's port at Ipswich, with groups of seamen from all races roaming about the town, looking for alcohol and trouble. The young Bobby on the beat had to have his wits about him.
To add fuel to the fire, there was a large amount of high-rise construction going on at the time, with such contracts as the Grey Friars Shopping Centre, attracting a large intake of Irish navies, with their own bar for excessive violence of the Blue Coat Boy, on the Old Cattle Market of the town. 
And there were always the red-neck yobs from out of town... to antagonise the large homosexual community of the town, with their own pub to meat up, The Falcon Inn, on the corner of Falcon Street and Quinn Street. You could say that Saturday night was a powder keg just waiting to go off... which it regularly did with such incidence as described on the last two threads. 
Saying this, I had to deal with far more senseless violence during the ten years that I worked as a night security person at the local Salvation Army Hostel for homeless men in Fore Street, in Ipswich. I hope you enjoyed the read, and if you would like more detail, then turn to the Books Forum for the Kindle code for my last book, 'From Beat to Open Deck'. I promise you that you won't be disappointed. All the best, Cpt Dick Brooks.


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## ccurtis1 (Aug 16, 2007)

Ipswich?
My only abiding memory of the town, was attending for an interview with "Gokal" who had an office in Ipswich, and then flying out to Geneva, to meet the owners, from Ipswich International Airfield. And yes, it was a field and the aircraft a small 6 seater. After meeting the owners, we flew back to Ipswich via a small airfield in the Thames estuary where there were customs and immigration facilities, sadly lacking at that time of day in Ipswich. It was a bit of a lumpy take off and landing in the estuary, the pilot putting it down to the close proximity of London and the thermals generated.
Sadly, I do not recall much of my visit to Ipswich.


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## Cpt Dick Brooks (May 13, 2013)

*For ccurtis 1.*

Good to hear from you, ccurtis1. Myself, and many of my associates, always hoped that the old air field at Ipswich would be upgraded to that, of say, Norwich... but it wasn't meant to be. There was always plenty of small plane action... people learning how to fly... but that was about how far it got. I remember for years there was an old grounded DC3 parked up near the small shed that served as a control tower, but it's all long gone now, being completely built over into a housing estate. There is a large council owned sports centre on the west side of the field... or was when I was last over that way. I lived over that way for seven years in the nineties, but I now live in a flat in Old Stoke Village, just south of Stoke Bridge. The docks are nearby... now chocka-block with hundreds of yachts in the two marinas there. The lock gate crew still put that down to me, as I was the first person to charter a private tall ship out of Ipswich Dock with my second ship, Biche. She has thankfully been completely rebuilt by a French conservation group in Brittany, and now charters out of Lorient, nearby to the Isle de Groix, where she originally fished for tuna out in the Bay of Biscay with lines strung from 70 foot poles hung off the main mast. I flew to France and sailed on her last year, and it was a wonderful Déjà vu moment when I took the helm for two hours. It was good to chew the fat with you, and I look forward to hearing from you again. All the best, Cpt Dick Brooks.


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## Winmar (Feb 13, 2016)

Well f*** me, eat your heart out Dixon of Dock Green! Who would have guessed that the place that I got sh*ters on Tolly Cobbold and spent many a Saturday afternoon afternoon taking the p*ss out of Paul Mariner and Alan Brazil would be England's answer to Chicago!,,,!


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## Cpt Dick Brooks (May 13, 2013)

*For winmar.*

Good to hear from you, winmar, and hope you enjoyed my threads. I must admit that Cobnut by Tolley Cobbold was my first beer at 15 years old, bought from 'The Lifeboat' pub in Wherstead Road, a distant memory in my youth.
As a point of interest, when John Cobbold built his brewery on what is now adjacent to Cliff Quay at the start of the 1800's, he signed a contract with my relative, James Cuckow, to supply his brewery with malted barley. The Cuckow family, part of the maternal side of my family, were the largest ship owners in Ipswich at the time... owning thirteen sailing ships.
To comply with this contract, they purchased the largest vessel to work out of Ipswich, the three-masted square-rigger, Majestic, of 346 tons. The Cobbold Brewery was so successful, that in 1832 James Cuckow and James Cobbold jointly bought the 305 ton square-rigged ship, the 'Orwell' to supply the brewery with enough malted barley to keep up with the production of beer. She was eventually wrecked when entering Manakau Harbour in New Zealand in 1848, while under the command of John Shaw.
The Cuckow shipping office was near the church, just behind the Old Customs House on The Common Quay in the Wet Dock of Ipswich. I hope you enjoyed this short thread, and that you will read and enjoy many more by my hand. All the best, Cpt Dick Brooks.


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## Winmar (Feb 13, 2016)

Thank you for the interesting back story Dick. Enjoyed many happy times in Ipswich in the 70's on a regular run. Happy days!


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