Romani Roots

Vasts for Victory

Bare knuckle fighting is a historic tradition of the Romani Gypsy people and some members have relatives which were themselves Bare knuckle fighters, so with that in mind we have published a page to celebrate this sport.

©AMAZON

The History of Bare Knuckle Fighting

Historically Bare Knuckle fighters have been the sportsmen of the Romani Gypsy for many centuries and most popular during the late 1700's and early 1800's. Many of todays modern Gypsy boxers are descendant of historically famous Bare Knuccle ancestors.

Weights were an early instigation and included Lightweight(up to 9 st), Middleweight (9 - 10 st), and HeavyWeight (over 10st). There were few Heavyweights as these were considered unbeatable.

There were no written rules - so below-the-belt blows, grabbing, kicking, biting and headbutting would and did occur. Rounds had no time limits, a round lasted until one of the fighters was knocked out; and there were no referees, "Umpires", as they were called, stayed outside the ring. There were no rest periods and only half a minute allowed for recovery, before a fight restarted, so if through exhaustion, a figher fell, they were out. ©WIKIMEDIA JOHN SULLIVAN

No gloves were used, but "Mufflers", (used for exhibiton fighting and training ONLY), an early fore-runner of the modern glove, was encouraged by the HeavyWeight champion Jack Broughton in the mids 1700's, who also drew up the first written rules in 1743 which were called "The London Prize Ring Rules" - but these were the ONLY written rules for over a century.

Although Bare Knuckle fighting is not illegal - it is seen as the more brutal and primative brother of modern Boxing. Most modern fights have referees, gloves, trainers etc and are held indoors, although there are fights which do not adhere to the strict conditions of the majority. These unlicensed fights are secretive, private affairs and still occur today.

MEMBER CONTRIBUTION

This following member contribution is a interesting article to accompany our page on Bare Knuckle Fighting and we thank our member for such a substancial contribution.

There are 16 long articles, and so we have felt it best to publish the first and final article only - this is a long read but we do hope you enjoy it!

PLEASE NOTE:
1) This article was original published by: The South Wales Echo and Express newpaper
2) This article was re-published by kind permission of the contributer: Selina Turner

APOLOGIES: This article was compiled by Mr GLYNN HATHERALL and not researched by Mary Wiltshire, as previously published.

THIS ARTICLE REMAINS UNDER THE SOLE OWNERSHIP OF THE ABOVE AND CANNOT BE REPRODUCED WITHOUT PERMISSION. NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT IS INTENDED BY ROMANI ROOTS OR ITS STAFF AND PERMISSION WAS GIVEN BY THE CONTRIBUTER BEFORE PUBLICATION

South Wales Echo and Express,

Monday, March 23, 1936.

FIFTY YEARS OF BOXING IN SOUTH WALES

“Scraps” From the Diary Of a Well-known Showman

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JOHN SCARROTT’S STORY

(As Related to William Hughes)

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The opening chapters in a fascinating story of the Welsh ring, covering a period of 50 years, are given below, with John Scarrott, one of the best-known showmen in the country, as the story-teller. These reminiscences deal with the “bare-knuckle” and glove fighters, and throw little-known side-lights upon incidents in the careers of some of the most famous boxers in the history of the roped square. The articles pulsate with vivid recollections of clashes both inside and outside the “boxing booth” that make the alleged “brutal” fights of to-day appear tame in comparison. In the first instalment one gets a taste of the glamour of the fight game in the so-called “good old days” — literally “scraps” from the diary of a king of the “sawdust ring.”

Fifty years I’ve been in the game, mister, and all that time I’ve been right here in the mining valleys, where your paper, the Echo, goes. I know every town and village in South Wales, and I knew every boxer worth calling a fighting man they ever turned out. Dai St. John, Tom Thomas, Jim Driscoll, Freddy Welsh, Johnny Basham, Jimmy Wilde, Percy Jones, and many more that were before their time. I knew them all, and a good few started with me in my booth.

I was scrapping for a living in a boxing booth before I started a booth on my own, and I was only about 21 when I started on my own. Believe me, the life of a booth boxer in those days was tough.

Mountain fighters! That’s what they called the miners who used to fight bare-knuckles on the mountains. To tell you the truth, mister, we booth boxers were afraid of them. They used to come to the fair grounds from the collieries with their gangs with them, most of ’em half drunk, and the very sight of them was enough to freeze the heart out of a bull terrier. Broken noses, black eyes, cauliflower ears, lumps knocked off ’em. If they heard that there was a well-known champion in a boxing booth at a particular fair they’d walk 50 miles to have a go at him.

And they’d bring their crowd with them. Often the whole crowd would turn up half drunk, and I’ve known them to try and break into the caravans. They were out to lick us booth boxers. Very often when you were boxing one of them and you were backing before his punches, watching out for a chance to get in the k.o., you’d get a punch from behind from one of his pals. The difference between the fairgrounds in South Wales to-day and what they were 50 years ago — it’s like being in another world. Education and the churches and chapels have done that.

You might not believe it, but about the roughest place in the valleys in those days was Ferndale. Treorchy, Tonypandy and Bargoed were almost as bad. I remember a riot in my booth at Ferndale 48 or 47 years ago. It was only over a shilling which somebody put in the cap when we made a collection for an old mountain fighter and which somebody else took out, but before you could say Jack Robinson everybody was fighting through and through, and my booth was on the floor. Men were hitting other men and not knowing who they were hitting or why.

Two mountain fighters started it, and the crowd had nicknames for both of them. One they called Shoni Engineer — his real name was John Jones — and the other Dai Brawd. Shoni Engineer became a famous fighter, and I’ll have a lot to tell you about him. Anyway, Dai Brawd hit one of the booth men, and when Shoni Engineer asked him in Welsh what he was doing, he said he’d do the same to Shoni, and that started it.

The pubs at this time were very small places with very rough crowds. There were more Bristol men than Welshmen in some parts of the Rhondda at this time, and there was many scraps between them. Fifty-two years ago there was a terrible fight in the Mardy Hotel between a Bristol gang and a Welsh gang. It was on Christmas Eve, and I remember looking in and seeing them fighting all over the pub and out in the backyard. Four or five of the worst were taken on a milk float to Ferndale with policemen on top of them holding them down.

Talking about the rough ’uns fighting in the pubs, old Mr. Trehearne of the Butchers’ Arms in Pontypridd had a wonderful way of handling ’em. He was a great character, he was. All the ruffians from Pontypridd and the valleys used to gather at the Butchers’ Arms on Saturdays and particularly on Mabon’s Day — that was the Monday’s holiday once a month which ‘Mabon’ got for the miners and which they named after him. Mr. Trehearne had his own way of dealing with them. Fights used to take place in the big bar, but Mr. Trehearne always took it very calm.

When a fight started he’d come into the bar from another part of the house and ask, ‘What’s on here!” “So-and-So and So-and-So are goin’ to have a fight.” “Right,” Mr. Trehearne would say, “Lock the doors, draw the blinds, and put everything out of the way. Now get on with it.” He used to let ’em go on for three or four rounds until one of them showed signs that he’d had enough, and then he’d stop it and say, “Now open the doors and get on with your drinks, boys.”

There was a rough crowd in Pontypridd on Mabon’s Day. It was on one of those days that a policeman was kicked to death on the steps of a pub by the station.

People talk about boxing to-day being a brutal sport. They don’t know nothing at all about it. They ought to see some of the bare-knuckle fights I saw when I was a boy.

The very first fight I ever saw was about 60 years ago, when I was a very small boy — I’m now 69. When I was going on an errand for my mother near a place called Black Pill, on the Mumbles road, I saw a crowd of gypsies, and I heard there was going to be a fight between a gypsy named Jack Hearn and a man named Martin Fury. The gypsy women, who were afraid of trouble, were asking for somebody to go for the police to stop the fight, but the gypsy men wanted the fight to go on.

Well, they stripped and got at it. Hearn was a very fine man, about 15 stone in weight, about 5ft. 10in. in height, and all strength and ruggedness from head to foot, while Fury was only about 11st. 6lb. None of the gypsies could believe that Hearn could be beaten, for he had licked all the gypsy fighters that came his way, and those gypsies in those days didn’t fight for money, for there was nobody about to offer them purses, but just for the love of fighting.

But this Fury turned out to be a very fast fighter and clever. He kept on ducking and dodging in and out, and playing on Hearn’s face, until it was dreadfully swollen and battered. They must have fought for an hour and a half, but how many rounds I don’t know, for a round lasted until a man went down, but Fury beat him up in the face so bad that he blinded him in both eyes.

The gypsy women were now shouting to go for the police, and the fight was stopped, but a gypsy shouted, “We will lance his eyes and get him to see, and he can fight again.” They did it, and the fight went on, but Hearn was blinded again, and the man could fight no more. Five minutes after the fight the police came, and an old gypsy woman said to them, “My dear men, you’re too late.”
And they talk about boxing as they carry it on to-day being brutal! I remember a worse bare-knuckle fight than that in a field off the road between Whitland and Carmarthen between William Samuels — he was a Swansea man and a famous boxer and showman — and a man named Sam Lane. I’m going to tell you about this fight, and also about the time Samuels caused a riot at the Irish fete at the Sophia Gardens, Cardiff.

Made Boxing Champions

John Scarrott Is Dead

The death occurred at the Fairground, Caldicot, over the week-end, of the well-known South Wales amusement caterer and boxing promoter, Mr. John (Jack) Scarrott, at the advanced age of 84. The news of the death of old John Scarrott will be received with deep and genuine regret by thousands of his old friends scattered far and wide throughout the mining valleys of South Wales, writes William Hughes, the author of the series of 14 articles on his life’s story which were published in the South Wales Echo some years ago.

The old showman was for about half a century perhaps the best-known figure in South Wales boxing. Many of Wales’s finest champions started their careers in his booth, where they gained their early experience by taking on all comers. In this rough and ready school, considered by many good judges to be the best of all for producing champions, were trained Tom Thomas, Jimmy Wilde, Jim Driscoll, ,Percy Jones, Lew Edwards, Boyo Driscoll and a number of other boxers who were famous in the valleys in their day.

With the exception of Freddie Welsh, who had his early training as a professional fighter in the United States, John Scarrott knew intimately practically ever boxer of note South Wales produced during what may be described as the golden age of Welsh boxing.

I gathered from him that of all the men who appeared in his booth his favourites were Jim Driscoll and Jimmy Wilde. “Jim Driscoll was a very nice boy”, he would say, and then relate how Jim kept a promise to appear in his booth although in the meantime he had won the championship of England.

It was amusing to hear him speak of the days when Jimmy Wilde looked so frail that the crowd used to appeal to him to “take him away before he gets hurt.” To which he would reply, “Just wait a minute, and you’ll see this little chap doing all the hurting.”

As a showman John Scarrott was supreme, and he had an extraordinary influence over the crowd that thronged around his booth, many of whom were only too ready to start a ‘rough house’ on the slightest provocation. “Come up. pay up,” he would shout. “None of your unemployed admitted for nothing tricks here,” and the crowd, which would have resented the remark from anybody else, would file past him, laughing, into his tent.

In his younger days he was no mean exponent of the fistic art himself, but as he grew too old for the game he would answer a challenge from somebody in the crowd by pointing to his array of booth boxers with the remark that he did not keep dogs and bark himself. He could neither read nor write, but was in his own way a shrewd and intelligent man with a philosophy of his own acquired in his 50 or 60 years of a showman’s life.

As his biographer and friend I can say, “Peace to his ashes, South Wales will never see another like him.”

The funeral is to take place at Glyntaff Cemetery, Pontypridd, at 3.45 on Wednesday afternoon.