Gangsters, Guns & Me - Now I'm in Eastenders, but once I was on the run. This is my true story. Jamie Foreman
down there,’ said the bully, pointing a finger at my father. ‘Man at the oche.’
Dad glanced up, the smile vanishing from his face. Mum sighed. Something was about to happen, and it wasn’t going to be the start of a beautiful friendship. All the signs were there – Dad was icy cool, calm and collected, with that flicker of anger in his eye. Not great news.
Casually, Dad walked across the pub, past the bully and up to the dartboard, which he ripped from the wall. He opened the door to the pub, walked outside and threw it on to the street. He’d been meaning to get rid of that dartboard, so I suppose this was as good a time as any. It might have ended there, but while my dad was outside the stupid sod who’d started it all decided to shut the pub door and lean on it. He was trying to shut my dad out of his own pub. Mum sighed again. Now there would definitely be trouble.
Dad charged the door, which burst open and sent the bloke flying. Quick as a flash, Dad picked him up, knocked him spark out with one punch and slung him out the door.
‘No more darts in here,’ he said, dusting his hands off before resuming his chat with the customers. Before long, laughter filled the room again.
There was a body and a dartboard in the street. Word soon got around with the locals that Dad wasn’t to be messed with.
The pub quickly became a South London hotspot. Everyone used to go to the Prince of Wales, but they all called it Foreman’s. It was a lovely little place – red flock wallpaper from Sanderson, wood half-panelling on each wall and, on one of them, a beautiful 16th-century map of London. Around the walls hung silhouettes of Dickens characters – Uriah Heep, Mr Bumble, Bill Sykes and Oliver Twist surveyed us all. Dickens was significant because the great man himself had once resided in Lant Street when his father was in Marshalsea Debtors’ Prison just around the corner. The house Dickens lodged in had been demolished, but Dad had acquired its lock and key and proudly displayed it in a glass case. I even attended the local primary school called – you guessed it – Charles Dickens Primary. Little did I know that one day I’d play one of literature’s greatest villains, Bill Sykes, in Roman Polanski’s film of Oliver Twist.
Foreman’s was the first pub in South London to have a wall-mounted jukebox. It played all of the latest releases before they hit the charts, thanks to the A.1 Stores in Walworth Road. They made sure you heard it first in the Prince of Wales. The atmosphere was always electric. It was the kicking-off place for young people’s nights out before heading off to clubs in Herne Hill, Hammersmith, Streatham or the West End. Young ‘faces’ from the manor – the Elephant and Castle, Walworth Road and Bermondsey – would come in with their beautiful girlfriends and the place had a sexual charge that was any young boy’s dream. I’ll never forget how it felt walking through the bar and being grabbed by all these pretty young women who wanted to say hello to little Jamie. By the time I’d crossed the bar I’d have lipstick marks all over me, and I loved it.
Dad’s business extended further than just selling beer, but that didn’t mean it was a pub full of criminals. His ‘firm’ used to congregate there, of course, but they happily rubbed shoulders with the rest of the young crowd. No one needed to know that they were calling in favours and doing a bit of business at the same time. My godfather Buster Edwards and the other Great Train Robbers would often drop by, as would the Krays, who were good friends, especially Charlie and his beautiful wife Dolly. But the customers were none the wiser and the atmosphere was always lively and happy.
My dad and his firm were precisely why Foreman’s had a reputation for being such a safe pub. You could take your girlfriend there and be secure in the knowledge that nobody was going to take liberties with you. No one ever caused any trouble. They didn’t dare. If anyone was about to perform, the chances were they’d be dealt with before it even kicked off and slung out without ceremony – the ‘chaps’ could smell trouble at a thousand yards. Dad’s pitch was always in the corner of the pub, so he could see everything that was going on. As a result, the atmosphere wasn’t tense: it was fantastic.
The sixties were in full swing, and our pub seemed to represent that – it was a melting pot of classes and personalities. Pop stars such as Cat Stevens and Manfred Mann were regulars, as was the great footballer Bobby Moore and his wife, along with other West Ham, Spurs, Millwall and Chelsea stars. Actors and actresses – especially Barbara Windsor and the Carry On team – mixed freely with High Court judges and politicians. A highlight was when the legendary Hollywood star George Raft was in town and spent the day drinking with my mum and dad. Unfortunately, the Home Office deemed Mr Raft unsuitable to stay in the country and he was deported back to the States. I wish I could have met him. Still, I have some great photographs of them together.
All manner of men and women came to the pub and had a great time. Young as I was, I sensed that Dad had extensive connections and interests that went far beyond anything I could fully understand. I was part of it, in as much as I was a Foreman, and I used to feel as if I was linked to something slightly nefarious and secretive. It was exciting and exhilarating, and it made me feel protected and safe.
I observed the kind of network that was growing around my father and I began to understand the reputation he had. Moreover, I learned that a man in that world has nothing but his reputation and his name. The values my dad and his firm adhered to were strong: you never fuck anyone over for money; you never hurt one of your own; you never take liberties with anybody; you never bully and most importantly you never, ever, grass. In those days there was more honour among thieves. And, while I was no thief, I grew up around men whose values I had nothing but respect for.
Everyone accepts and adapts to their surroundings, and that’s what I did as a boy. I can’t condemn anyone I’ve grown up with and loved all my life. My family, my uncles (the men close to me who I call uncles), they were all products of their environment and products of their day. Their lives took them down a certain path, and if they were horrible people I would have recognised it by now. They were strong and dangerous people, yes, but they were also kind, generous and caring men. There were equally strong and dangerous men on the other side of the fence – the firms that were the enemy. That was life, and to me what I experienced as a boy was merely part of London’s rich tapestry.
Crime may have been exciting. It may have meant money and power. It may have been the thing that made my dad feel alive. But Freddie Foreman did not want his son to follow in his footsteps. He wanted better things for me.
Dad and I have always had a special relationship. Behind the scenes he was tender, caring and very keen to educate me and make me think. He never once raised a hand to me – he ruled with the mind, not the rod. When telling me off, he would make me see the error of my ways. He always spoke to me as an adult, and introduced me to adult things – from Beethoven to Buddy Greco, Frank Capra to William Shakespeare. Sure, he’d get down on the floor and play soldiers with me, but he would lay out the battle lines with care, and regale me with stories about tactics and great battles. He stimulated my mind and instilled a love of the theatrical in me.
Dad was simply the best dad he could be. As a child I felt such warmth and love that, when my parents told me I had a place at boarding school, I trusted that it was the right move. And, as always, my trust in them wasn’t misplaced.
Three pairs of brown socks, three pairs of black socks, three pairs of long socks and three pairs of short socks; three pairs for cricket, three for football and rugby. And then there were the pants, pyjamas, shirts and short trousers.
My tearful mum and I packed all the kit into my new trunk. Christ, I thought, I really am going on the adventure of a lifetime. I was seven years old. In my head it was as if I was getting ready to embark on a journey to distant lands – India, Africa perhaps. In reality I would soon