A Deptford Particular

Earlier this month and for the last time, I trained at the Lord Clyde Boxing Gym in Deptford. When it closed, I lost one of my favourite places in all of London.

The gym at the ‘Clyde shut its doors after a protracted legal battle that had initially seen the plucky little boozer successfully challenge the developers’ plans. Landlord Rory McInally brought together a wide coalition to oppose the move. But the developers have since hit back and have succeeded in their objections to the gym’s continued use.

This was a place where local kids boxed for free, trained and supervised by former professional boxers fer chrissakes. Plans had even been afoot to revive the Cuban-style outdoor gym in the backyard for the Summer months. While we’re not always the biggest fans of the police on these pages we do acknowledge that those officers who have any interest in building community relations have always traditionally recognised the value  of local boxing gyms and the ‘Clyde had police support.

Rory McInally

Back in August, when it looked like the Clyde and its supporters had seen off the developers, local bloggers, Deptford Dame and Deptford Misc outlined the whats and wherefores of the legal objections mounted and if the story interests you, I cannot recommend them highly enough should you wish to find out more.

In September, the gym held an open day, the local fire brigade turned up with an engine, there was a barbecue, a bouncy castle and the centre piece; an exhibition of Muay Thai in front of the pub, put on by the club that trained in the gym.

With the gym’s closure, a valuable community resource has been snuffed out; denuding another deprived area at a time when community is just about all people have. And that community has already made it clear that this old building, with its defiant little public bar and its robust boxing gym upstairs, was worth fighting for.

For me personally, The Lord Clyde has always been a bit of an anchor (upstairs and downstairs). I first visited the pub for a lock-in after a night’s boxing I was covering in Bethnal Green; the first time I saw Carl Froch fight live. That was more than ten years ago and I’ve been going there ever since.

It’s where I met Alex Higgins and wrote a story about a stolen afternoon playing pool and watching the racing with the Hurricane. The story, written for the Irish World, is framed on the wall of the Clyde. And when I was on my uppers, it’s also where I found work as a roofer and spent manys a happy Friday drinking my wages with my workmates.

Then, as the thirsty years came to a close, it’s the place I went to find what I was capable of and perhaps more importantly, what I wasn’t. Where I’d lose myself skipping for round after round; the whipping rhythm beating out a driving tattoo that soothed angst to the point of frozen, transcendental reflection. All the while, the bastard clock would slow down towards the end of every three minutes.

I’ve been going to boxing gyms off and on since I was ten; when I was first taken to the Golden Gloves in Belmullet by my father. Since then, they’ve always been places I’ve gone, not just to keep fit but also to try and remember the virtues of conducting oneself with respect, humility and a strong work ethic, I don't always succeed but it's still the best school I know.

You walk in and the smell hits you, leather and sweat. Then it’s the posters and the bags; big swinging carcasses of battered vinyl, duct-taped and frayed where they’ve taken a pounding. And the ring. Raised on a sprung dais, the stretched blue canvas setting off the occasional old brown and fresh red blood spatter. And always the clock, running down the rounds.

When I had the place to myself on Baltic Monday evenings, that wee, slightly ramshackle gym was just about my happiest place and I’ll always miss it.

Of course I’ll still visit the pub as long as it’s open but I’ve had to find a new gym. It’s a good gym, it’s busy and it's friendly but it won’t be the same. I won’t have the place to myself on cold Monday nights and I won’t be able to go downstairs.

After training, I’d often find myself deep in animated conversations at the bar about art and politics with Bill McInally, the father of Landlord Rory, the artist Matthew Radford,  and whoever else happened to be knocking about; gasfitters, postmen, potmen and publicans philosophising and discussing history. All presided over by the finest Kerry Blue terrier you’ve ever seen who – not surprisingly in a Celtic pub – answers to the name of Larsson.

But I guess we shouldn’t be too surprised about a little pub like this being a place of wide and varied discussion.  One of the great things about London is the continuity or evolution trades and traditions that persist in certain areas of the city. Deptford Misc writes that the wonderfully named Ancient Order of Oddfellows used to meet at the Clyde in the 19^th century. Apparently, a lodge of Oddfellows, one of the first friendly societies in Britain, held dinners at the Lord Clyde in the 1870s.

The Lord Clyde: it’s not that pretty, the beer’s not even that great (but then I could say the same of half a dozen venerable old Soho drinking institutions) and its robustness might not be for everyone but still it has something special; something that is being lost all over London. For me at least, it’s a Deptford Particular.