all bothered. Ronnie, particularly, thought it a big joke.
‘What do they think we’re going to do?’ he quipped. ‘Take over the bleeding country?’
With Esmeralda’s – and other projects dreamed up by Leslie Payne – bringing in hundreds every week, it wasn’t long before we decided to open another club in the East End to replace the much-missed Double R. We called it The Kentucky and it was packed every night after it opened early in 1962.
I must admit the way the twins chucked money around worried me and, since the Betting and Gaming Act had made gambling legal, I suggested investing some of our profits in betting shops, which were springing up all over the country. But Ronnie and Reggie did not fancy the idea.
What we did agree on, however, was using some of our money and growing business and showbusiness contacts for charity work. The three of us had always been eager to help old people and children and now we took huge pleasure in organizing fund-raising activities for Mile End Hospital, the Queen Elizabeth Hospital for children, the Repton Boys’ Club and various other organizations.
One of Reggie’s promotions at the York Hall in Bethnal Green was unique. He matched Bobby Ramsey – who had been responsible for the ill-fated bayonet attack in 1956 – as a properly gloved boxer against a judo and karate expert called Ray Levacq. Although the ‘anything-goes’ bout lasted only a few minutes – Ramsey winning by a second-round knockout – the star-studded audience loved it, and local charities benefited by several hundred pounds.
The Kentucky had a colourful, if short, life. A number of international stars – including Billy ‘That OF Black Magic’ Daniels – came there for a few drinks after their shows and the club even provided the setting for a film, Sparrows Can’t Sing. The mayor of Bethnal Green, Mr Hare, asked if we could help him by selling tickets for the charity première at the Empire Cinema opposite The Kentucky. We bought £500 worth – and sold the lot. Later, people would say this was ‘demanding’, but it wasn’t. East Enders were keen to support charities, always had been. And anyway, people liked a good night out. After the première we threw a party for the whole cast that was talked about for months. Throughout 1962 and early 1963 the East End in general, and The Kentucky in particular, was the place to be.
You could never be quite sure what was going to happen. One night, for instance, a midget singer called Little Hank took the stage for a cabaret spot when Ronnie suddenly emerged from the wings, holding a donkey on a leash. Little Hank – no doubt as surprised as the rest of us – gravely climbed on it and sang his opening number as Ronnie stood alongside with a straight face. After Hank’s performance, Ronnie led the donkey down to the bar and it waited next to him patiently while he had a few drinks. Later he gave the donkey to a club member for one of his children.
At around three in the morning, Ronnie was woken up by a knock at the door in Vallance Road. The recipient of Ronnie’s thoughtful gift was extremely grateful, but wanted to know what to do to stop the blessed animal’s deafening hee-haws, which were keeping everyone awake.
‘Put its bloody head in a sack,’ Ronnie offered, and went back to bed.
Charitable Ronnie even gave some local buskers a chance to take the Kentucky stage. We were walking along Bethnal Green Road one day when Ronnie pointed at four or five blokes playing trumpets and various other instruments on the pavement.
‘They’re terrific,’ said Ronnie. ‘I always give ‘em a few quid.’
I nodded. A few quid probably meant ten.
‘Oh, by the way,’ he added, ‘I’ve told a couple of them to come to the club tonight and play us a tune. I said we’d give ‘em a few quid.’
‘Do me a favour, Ron,’ I said. ‘They’re amateurs.’
‘They’re very good, let me tell you,’ Ronnie said indignantly.
‘You can’t have them in the club,’ I told him.
But, of course, he did. They played a tune and Ronnie paid them. That’s how he was.
Both the twins had a lot of will-power, but Ronnie’s was phenomenal. He had a sort of obsession about it: if you really wanted to do something, he’d say, nothing should be able to stop you.
One night in The Kentucky, Ronnie was at the bar, having a heated discussion about will-power with a much younger guy.
‘I’ll prove you can do anything you want,’ Ronnie was saying. And he took a knife out of his pocket and plunged it into his left hand. Blood spurted everywhere. Reggie and I looked at each other, not believing what we had seen. We ran behind the bar and got a towel and wrapped it round Ronnie’s hand, which seemed nearly cut in half.
‘What were you doing?’ Reggie yelled. ‘Are you mad?’
Ronnie just said he was trying to prove a point.
‘Fantastic!’ I said. ‘You’re so bright.’
We took him to The London Hospital at Whitechapel and a doctor told him he had come within a fraction of an inch of losing the use of the hand.
Ronnie said he had put his hand through a window, but the doctor did not believe him. When we got home, Mum broke her heart. She kept asking Ronnie why he had done it, but all he would say was, ‘To prove a point.’
When I told him I thought he was barmy trying to prove a point to some idiot, Ronnie said, ‘Shut your mouth. It’s done now. It’s finished.’
You could never tell Ronnie anything.
Both he and Reggie could not bear anyone who took liberties, particularly where women were involved. One afternoon, some girls from a dress-making factory hired The Kentucky for a firm’s party. The twins and I greeted them, then left them to enjoy themselves. Later we learned that two brothers named Jordan had gone to the club and made themselves busy with the girls, grabbing them and generally trying it on. The bloke in charge of the club had not tried to stop the brothers because he feared they would smash the place up.
We hit the roof. I was happy to find the brothers and warn them verbally but the twins didn’t think that was enough. The next morning Ronnie got up at five o’clock to go to Smithfield market where one of the brothers worked; he told Reggie and me to go to a local glass factory to find the other one.
When we got there, Reggie told me to leave everything to him because two on to one wasn’t fair. One massive punch to the jaw did it: Jack the Lad Jordan didn’t know what hit him. But, as usual, Ronnie was not able to throw just one and walk away. Apparently, he charged around Smithfield and when he found his Jordan, knocked him all over the place, leaving him in a right mess. The brothers never came into The Kentucky again.
Sadly, it was only a few months later that no one came to the club at all. Mysteriously, our request to have our licence renewed was turned down by the local justices. The club had been run properly, with no complaints from anyone, and applications for extensions had always been granted. But our renewal application was thrown out anyway. The local justices were not obliged to say why, and they didn’t.
It did not need an Einstein to work out the reason. Because we refused to give the police back-handers to leave us alone we were still marked men. The daft charges of fiddling with car doors and robbing defenceless old-age pensioners had blown up in the police faces, so other tactics had to be used. They had easily closed The Double R without good reason, and they did the same with The Kentucky.
The closure had a bad effect on all of us, but particularly Ronnie. He hated the police aggravation and the violence. He would often say to Mum, ‘I’m going to move. I can’t stand it any more.’ He wanted to get away from an area that bred violence and people who revelled in it. Ronnie, of course, was violent himself. But afterwards he would hate what he had done. I remember once he got extremely depressed and said, ‘That’s it. I’ve