Saturday Night is Fight Night. Warning – Violent.

The street lights were fighting a losing battle against the encircling gloom as I climbed out of the taxi and watched it drive away.

The lads in the distance were just shapes, but their purpose was clear as they bunched together and walked towards me. Three of them. Their territory. Their turf.

Along the length of the terrace a row of doors opened almost directly from the street. Even the most optimistic estate agent would hesitate to describe the width of a single flagstone, which was all that separated the house frontage from the pavement as a front garden. There were lights on behind the drawn curtains and closed blinds, but I’d wait a long time for any witnesses to turn up. Whatever took place on the streets, after dark, was nothing to do with the residents. Safety lay in closed doors and bad eyesight.

The lads were closer now. Confident. Cocky. Sure of themselves. They weren’t interested in anything I may have to say, that much was obvious. That was fine by me too – I had nothing to gain from these low-level outriders. The men I wanted to talk to had better things to do than prowl the streets looking for trouble.

I’d learnt the rules of street fighting early, had good teachers, had learnt how to look after myself. This had always been a tough town and Saturday nights were made for fighting.

The two bigger lads were in their early twenties. Low-level gang-bangers, a year or so past the point they should have moved up. Black tee-shirts, black jeans, heavy Doc martin boots. Street-fighters’ uniform. I ignored them, for now. The third man was younger, slighter, but far more dangerous. He looked directly at me, sizing me up. He was the one who’d give the orders. That made him the priority. I’d discounted the other two because of their size. Big men, big hands, heavy boots – they’d beaten up strangers straying onto their territory before. Many times by the expressions of anticipation on their faces. They’d settle for hand to hand combat, sure of their past records. The smaller, cleverer man was different. If any of the three had a weapon handy it would be him.

I’d worked out my strategy as they approached. They weren’t interested in anything I had to say, that much was certain. I had to even up the odds. I stopped by a lamp-post, waited for them to come to me. I already knew what would happen, they only thought they did.

Hit fast. Hit hard. Hit first.

That last one was the most important. Don’t wait for trouble to start. Once a fight becomes inevitable, do as much damage as possible early on. Seize the advantage. Always strike the first blow and make sure it does maximum damage. Forget Queensbury Rules and remember that a punch to the jaw is only effective in Hollywood films.

A clenched fist can do some damage but not enough to be worth the risk.

The human hand contains 27 bones, most of them small and delicate. Easy to damage. In a real fight it all comes down to what will cause maximum damage to the opponent while minimising the extent of damage suffered to yourself.

Hollywood never really understood the true nature of street fighting. Toe to toe slugging belongs in Rocky films and nowhere else. Nobody in their right mind should ever consider standing face to face with anyone who was swinging punches at them. Unless you really hate the way your face looks and fancy a change, forget the head-on full frontal method.

‘What have we here?’ the younger one called out. ‘Lost are you? Bad place to get lost, round here. Bad for your health.’

I ignored him, my strategy confirmed.

Nothing else succeeds like the sneak attack. Forget fairness, concentrate on doing the maximum amount of damage with your first shot. Do it well and they go down. Once they’re on the floor, do whatever it takes to keep them there. If that means kicking them in the head, so be it. Things get a little easier if you happen to have a weapon handy.

In the absence of a convenient iron bar or snooker cue, the human equivalent of a bowling ball is both conveniently available and massively effective. I leant back slightly, as if in fear, and then threw myself forward, smashing my forehead into the face of the man who had been baiting me. The solid ridge of frontal bone caught him on the bridge of his nose and instantly ended any further interest he may have had in fighting. He crumpled to the floor, clutching the ruins of his nose with his fingers and I instantly whipped round, snapping my elbow backwards, grunting with the effort.

The bigger of the two remaining men saw it coming, but was seemingly frozen in place. He’d opened his mouth in a gasp of astonishment when I’d head-butted the other man and by some fluke my elbow struck him at the hinge of his partly open mouth. I heard the crack of a fractured cheekbone and swivelled in one movement to deliver a sharp kick into the collection of nerves on the inside of his knee. He screamed through the wreckage of his jaw and fell to the ground. I glanced down at the pair of them writhing in pain and grinned. I wasn’t even out of breath. The third man looked at me, hate and rage contorting his features and rushed me, arms swinging. I stepped inside, up close, and elbowed him in the throat. He bellowed, enraged, swung around and I used his momentum to maximum effect, grabbing his tee-shirt and swinging him into the lamp-post. The sound of his head against the metal post was like a chapel bell and he dropped like a stone.

The youngest man was staring up at me, his companions were no longer interested. I shrugged my shoulders.

‘You win some, you lose some,’ I said. ‘If you see Tommy, tell him I was looking for him. He’ll know what it’s about.’ I turned my back on them and walked on, whistling. The word would get back to Tommy. Next time he’d want to talk to me.