The Legend of Local Hardmen

What became of the hardest bloke in town?

There was a time when hardmen were gods who walked among us. The oral history of their beatdowns carried grave warning, like ancient teachings of natural disaster. Local mythology around their feats of hardness travelled as far as, maybe, big-Tesco up the ring road? 

As with the wandering brutes of centuries past, most had never known their face, much less their fists. 

Yet that name alone evacuated discos and bowls alike. A name only ever stated in full, with a strange solemness - foreshadowing their small claims court appearances. A name always spoken in hushed reverence. As if the bogeyman himself might apparate and claim your teeth, dignity or consciousness, whichever gave out first. 

Even that name had an ominous ring to it. Two words that would send a growing set of testicles back from there which they had so recently dropped. Whether that was normative determinism or not, who knows? But there were no local hardmen named Pete Postlethwaite.

“Let’s get out of here, the Postlethwaites are here.”

Each unanswered haymaker echoed around a postcode for months, gathering force with each telling. Everyone had a cousin of a mate unceremoniously done in at the local fair. Or a mate of a cousin ceremoniously done in before a small ring of chanting followers. 

Invariably, this double-hard double-bastard’s latest show of grit was an unprovoked assault on a child half their size. Some softly-spoken soul who had no idea they were in a fight, until they weren’t. An innocent bystander tried by combat for a crime they didn’t commit. 

Don’t tell him I said this, please don’t, please, but the early 21st century tough nut was never really good at fighting. By today’s standards, at least.

Granted, this is coming from a man who broke a thumb with the first and only punch of his short, if distinguished, street-fighting record. You should see the other guy. I thumbed that cunt past the seventh circle of hell.

At most, these hardmen might have attended a weekly private boxing class from their abusive stepdad. Back then, an innate willingness to assault strangers was the only proven martial art. Now there’s an MMA gym on every corner, hopefully, the centuries-old trade of hard cunts is under threat.

So what became of that local hardman? The one whose name is stirring in your adolescent fear centres.

Well, after school, the social currency of hardness devalues pretty quickly. ‘Who would knock out who?’ no longer seems the great existential question of our age.

The life of a young hardman is a drama, the life of an old hardman is a tragedy. Our anti-hero ends up a hometown tribute act to fully-wound-up, semi-wound-down hardman, Ronnie ‘fucking’ Pickering. Haunting the same stool at their local boozer like a malignant spirit. Dooming this, their only place of solace, by scaring off any new custom mid-pint. 

The ageing hardman commits to a lifetime of posturing and aggressive cliches. Asking visually-impaired sightseerers what the fuck they think they’re looking at? Asking merry post-grads in pub gardens if they wanna take this outside.

Some venture into disorganised crime and all manner of small-time crookery. Perhaps, making an adorable attempt at pioneering Barrowby’s first-ever protection racket. Before long, they’re looking up bemused and glassy-eyed from the local paper - blowing their only real iconic opportunity at looking hard. 

Maybe they go the way of most hard cunts: soften up and settle down. One trip back home, you’ll find this fistic legend rupturing out of a lilac, short-sleeved shirt. Smiling as they patiently manipulate your mum into buying a new handset. “What a nice young man.”  

Fighting for reputation is a common symptom of a small-town mentality. The edge of the borough marks the outer limit of a hardman’s worldview. A big fish chasing notoriety around a small, stagnant pond. 

So if you’re ever intimidated by a peaking hardman, just make your grovelling apologies. Let them be the big man, and you be the bigger. As that squealed old kebab-van adage goes, “it's not worth it.” Let them have their moment, because that’s all it is, a moment. Most hardmen are going nowhere slowly.