John Claridge’s Boxers (Round Eight)
And still they come, the members of London Ex-Boxers Association – like an endless horde of pirates out of Peter Pan. Yet Contributing Photographer & Ex-Boxer John Claridge is more than a match for them, as you can see from this latest gallery of handsome rogues comprising the Eighth Round in his ongoing portrait project.
Tony Garrett (First fight 1964 – Last fight 1971)
Bob Williams (First fight 1976 – Last fight 1987)
Chas Monksfield (First & last fight 1956)
James Clegg (Member of LEBA for forty-one years)
Dave Potton (First fight 1957 – Last fight 1959)
Frank Rock (First fight 1970 – Last fight 1985)
Mark Taha (Boxing enthusiast & LEBA member for nine years)
Dave Stone(First fight 1948 – Last fight 1964)
Eric Blake (First fight 1957 – Last fight 1973)
Alfie Hills (First fight 1943 – last fight 1951)
Roger Smith (First fight 1948 – Last fight 1958)
Vernon Sollars (First fight 1963 – Last fight 1974)
Photographs copyright © John Claridge
Take a look at
John Claridge’s Boxers (Round One)
John Claridge’s Boxers (Round Two)
John Claridge’s Boxers (Round Three)
John Claridge’s Boxers (Round Four)
John Claridge’s Boxers (Round Five)
John Claridge’s Boxers (Round Six)
John Claridge’s Boxers (Round Seven)
and these other pictures by John Claridge
Along the Thames with John Claridge
At the Salvation Army with John Claridge
A Few Diversions by John Claridge
Signs, Posters, Typography & Graphics
Views from a Dinghy by John Claridge
In Another World with John Claridge
A Few Pints with John Claridge
Some East End Portraits by John Claridge
Sunday Morning Stroll with John Claridge
When I look at the face of James Clegg (fourth one down) I can’t imagine him boxing. Perhaps he dabbed the sweat off others’ brows. What am I talking about…I know nothing about boxing.
I would love to have any of these boxers to be my bodyguard if ever I would feel threatened by any mugger or violent person who does not like me. Terrific images as usual.
Just amazing! John Claridge’s trade mark is honesty and there’s no hiding from the truth when you find yourself in front of him.
There’s no other photographer like him around, and there properly never will be.
Thanks for sharing them with us John.
Salut
J
Blimey. How many leathery boxers are there in London? I actually find James Clegg quite disturbing. His eyes are following me around the room.
The outstanding quality of this extensive collection of portraits continues to amaze me !
Thanks.
Thanks, John.
Great pictures as ever, just wonder if John can go the distance. Guess most of these guys fought over the old 15 rounds so i hope there are many more to follow.
Just wanted to add how much I enjoyed hearing the wonderful readings at Rough Trade on Saturday. It was a small but very appreciative turn out made all the better by TGA choosing ‘ON Christmas Eve’ from a couple of years back which is just one of my favourite posts. It was a great privilege to meet and get my book signed by a truly charming and talented writer. Keep up the good work. Many thanks.
they are always fascinating. looking forward to the next round.
True to form…..another powerful evocation of a long gone,colourfull world even though shot not that long ago.Magic JC.
The Eighth Round: Great.
‘Eight ..’ There’s a thousand miles of bad road that started out so bright and wakened, mapped behind those eyes. Bet all of them started before they left school, could vote, get called up for maiming/ slaughter duties in a uniform woven on a loom made from a crown of thorns.
Later, The Marquis of Queensbury All the King’s men – Couldn’t put ‘Umpty together again.
Years of all weather roadwork, slogging park and pavement in fog, rain, snow, autumn leaves, spring and summer long. Forward, skip turn, run backwards, spin and throw a combo. Centuries in the gym and the ring in the gym, feinting, sparring, bag work, shadow. No sex, drink, before Battle.
Skip rope, combo’s, tape, gloves, sweat, soak hands in meths to harden knuckles ,gumshield, power bursts, ring command, speed, cartilage, cuts, styptic pencil, smelling salts, towels.
Voices from across a void …. ‘ You okay son…………..? ‘ ………………………….. ‘ Yeh. Fine’ ………..
Crowd sound like a skip load of scissors hurled on to shingle by spit flecked whitecaps.
Gotta lose some pounds? Gaffer tape yourself in bin bags ankle to neck, put on the track suit, over the sweater and long johns, towel sealing the neck, ankle weights. Run six miles – stopping for on the spot, knees high.
As The Greatest mentioned ‘ Get hit in the head 112 thousand times ‘ ….. the roaring of them that sleepwalk baying for the moon you’re up there getting for them, now turned to ceaseless tinnitus.
The bright road they cheered you to the echo on, running the gauntlet of adulation, now a lost highway, cold and grey. So quiet. Fathoms deep. The map’s still there alright, every memorable inch of it, but this empty plain wasn’t on the original. in the land of lost horizons, anywhere is nowhere. ‘ ‘Nine ‘ …… Follow the birds on the wind. The way back. Flown. ‘TEN’ All written there & caught by you JC. Don’t half go on a bit don’t I.
Gor blimey . . . just how many more former East End boxers have submitted themselves to JC’s searing, probing “tell no lies” lens?!