Chapter 29. Violence and aggression
Sunday 14th December 2025, sat in bed, Laptop on knee, I've always been anxious around violence of any kind from an early age.
I saw a younger man hit
an older man full on the nose, outside a pub in Bridlington Friday night. Blood is very red! It
triggered an anxiety attack and brought back many memories. I struggle with all
kinds of violence.
Saturday, 29th March 1958, 5 years old, Bradford. Featherstone Rovers: Dad was captain; played Workington in the Challenge Cup semi-final at Odsal Stadium, Bradford, in front of a crowd of 33,926. The whole of Featherstone (population 13,000) had travelled by train to Bradford; we had quite a long walk to get to Odsal (a cavernous bowl that still holds the record -1954 RL cup final replay 140,000 estimate- for any sporting event in the UK). I was 5, holding my mum's hand, we had to leave the disused track as in front was a fight, I saw two men kicking and punching another, he was on the floor crying, bleeding from his face and begging them to stop. I can't remember anything about the game (Rovers lost), but the violence and aggression I saw that day have left their scars.
September 1960. 17
Alexandra Rd, Featherstone, 7 years old. The start of the road was at Cressy’s corner, where it
led onto Featherstone Lane. I remember a butcher's shop on the corner, and the
half-made-up highway on the other side that led down to the railway line. I was walking along Alexander Road on the
left-hand side, next to the grocery shop on the corner, where it turned down to
the railway. Mum has a slate at the shop, where we could buy things and pay for
them at the end of the week. A lad approached me, from the butchers’ shop, he
shouted Lambert, come here, I felt afraid. He came towards me with a pen knife, blade
out and waving it at me. I put my left arm out to defend myself as he pulled
the blade down across the side of my hand - still have the scare - before running away. Not much blood, but needed stitches. I wrapped my snot and coal dust hanky around my
hand, caught the next bus to Pontefract hospital A&E, top of Valley
Gardens, four stitches, bus home and told mum I had fallen. Big boys didn’t cry; I just internalised my emotions. You?
December 1961. Alexander Road. Bitten by a dog, walking home after carol singing. Dogs don't like me attacked a few times and I am scared of them; our energies seem to collide. My golden Lab, Jojo, was different. She's for later.
31st December 1962. 17 Alexander Road, 9 years old. Sexually abused by the babysitter.
December 1960. Three months later, I had been carol singing and was returning
along Featherstone Lane, from North Featherstone, when I turned into Gordon Street,
where I had just started junior school. A lad approached me, the fear of being
attacked with a knife returned, and without thinking, I punched the lad, and he
ran away. I will return to this at the end, so please be patient.
September 1965.South Featherstone School. Punched and kicked, left lying on the floor by three lads after a game between North and South Featherstone U13’s. I didn't retaliate, just lay there sobbing.
1971 New Year's Eve,
Crown Pub, Normanton, I was stood at the far end of the crescent shaped
bar on the right as you enter, bar to my left, a round table in front with pints
of John Smith or Tadcaster ale, four or
five, almost full ashtray in the middle, to the right of me Richard Smith – let's call him – the brother of one of
my rugby friends, behind him a group of lasses and in front a lad I don't recognize,
bigger than me, broad shoulders, and looked agitated. Big Ben London, the
chimes, one, two to twelve on the pub radio. The sound of Auld Lang Syne replaced the
chimes, everyone singing along, glasses clinking, hugs and kisses all around.
For some reason, I stood motionless. Richard hugs and kisses the girl to his
right, the agitated man in front of me, picks up his almost finished pint of John Smith's, downs the rest in one, smashes the top of the glass on the
round table and plants the rest of the glass into Richard's left cheek. Even 55
years later, I can close my eyes and see Richard's teeth, where his cheek should
have been, the skin of his cheek curled up towards his eye and showed his gums. I am there now. I bumped into Richard about 20 years later in a pub
in Malham, North Yorkshire, with my first wife, Kerry. We both had scars; his were more visible than mine.
We all deal with our emotions in different
ways; the fight-or-flight response is natural. I used the rugby field, the
athletics track, the ski slopes, making money - Lambert's Chartered Surveyors-
sailing across the Atlantic, sex, drugs, and now, telling this story.
Being held at knife point, on my yacht in
St Katharine’s docks, and the rest, is for later.
And the point I am
making is:
That first punch, act of aggression/abuse, in December 1960, was also the last punch, act of aggression/abuse I have ever thrown towards another human being, in my life and I intend to keep it that way.
Have a good day.
Colin
Ps. The date of New Years Eve event in the Crown Pub is being checked.
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