Best 56 quotes in «street fighter quotes» category

Someone once asked me if I knew the feeling of fear. Oh, I knew fear. Well, really speaking I never feared any fucker at that time; I’ve got to be honest. But I knew fear, the fear of losing! There was never any fear of combat! My father instilled that fear in to me and that was what drove me on to win … the fear of what was to come after you went home saying you’d lost!

Some people say you should watch a man’s feet to see if he’s ready to swing a punch, I say watch his fucking eyes!

Thank God! He went down in front of the bar on the tiled floor. BANG! The fat bastard, he shattered both knees with the weight of him. My hands were in just a little bit of pain, but I was driven on to keep punching his fat head in by the gratifying squeals I was eliciting from him and, broken hands or not, with the coup de grace… I knocked him out.

The anti-hero has played an important role in the history of mankind, so much so that the whole ethos of what is good and bad has become blurred.

The difference between a heel and a coward and one who jumps in the fire and one who runs away from the fire; is up to the individual in how they manage a given situation.

The only kicks and highs people got then were the ones dished out in nightclub fights.

There’s no respect for older people at all today, and that’s saddening. Look at the way crime against older people has risen! You know, there’s no calling people ‘Mr’ or ‘Mrs’ now, they just call you, and it’s all ‘fuck off’ and the likes of.

There was just one cheeky bastard in the club that night and it started World War Three. There was a bloodbath down there, they all got locked up, and the police dogs didn’t need feeding for a week after that.

The scenario where the sprawling anti-hero gets his comeuppance and the champion walks off into the sunset with his arm around the prize, usually a woman, is a pleasing one. This media personification of what a hero is all about used to be the common norm. Examining past events can confirm this convoluted outlook that sees the baddie being portrayed as some sort of evil manifestation sent to cause havoc by any means possible.

These near death escapades didn’t put me off working in violent situations. If trouble happened then I couldn’t stop to think of what might happen. There were some good people about and my job was to protect them from trouble, I couldn’t let past experiences put me off.

Today, these doormen, they wear body armour, armoured gloves, stab proof vests and all sorts; it’s totally changed, you get shot at the door you are paid to stand at, never mind getting stabbed. Druggies go away, get a gun, return and start shooting at you! Yeah, times are changing fast and there are some nice kids out there and some of them are fucking wild. I can’t see it getting better with these drug mugs because they get on them and they can’t get off them again.

Violence was second nature to the psychopathic and ultra-violent Stephen Moyle, who was already a seasoned street fighter, after having half his face torn off in a street fight with three other men.

Watching him walk over, Alex mused that Eli Cooper was the sort of man who knew how to use his physicality. Beneath his handmade shirts and tailored suits, a street fighter hummed through every loose-limbed motion. But that impression did not extend to his face, which was structurally perfect. Skyscraper-high cheekbones. Superhero jaw. A mouth that should have a government warning. There were no signs of past trouble with a jealous husband or an abandoned girlfriend. No one had ever broken his nose. No one had busted his lip. Strange, because her first instinct on seeing him was to roundhouse kick him into the next millennium.

When I got off him, I spat the blood that was swamping my mouth in to his face, I looked down at him and it really looked like he was dying… shit! The ambulance arrived in about a minute and they got an oxygen mask straight on him and I could see the life draining out of him. You see, this is the problem; we are only human and flesh and blood.

You know, the Lord said to Adam: ‘Come forth, come forth,’ and he came fifth and won the fucking apple, do you know what I mean. If you can walk away, walk away but it’s hard to do

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

After about five minutes had passed, I went outside and they’d gone. When I checked my hand to see if my knuckles were swelling or any bruising was coming up I got a shock, there was false tan on my knuckles! I still chuckle about that to this day.

Another time, I was at the bar getting a drink and this geezer is stood at the bar with a ciggie in his mouth, trying his best to look rock hard. He takes a drag and points his finger in my face and drawls, ‘Don't I know you?’ He was looking snake-eyed at me like a typical big screen gangster. I stood in front of him and drawled back, ‘I don’t know, but they call me Richy Horsley,’ and then bang, I batter him with a left hook that landed with a strange dull thud. Mr Movie Gangster was stood there leaning against the bar and staring out in to space, knocked out standing up.

As much as Merthyr is a fighting town, these people also have hearts of gold. I worked all over Monmouth, and then the Aberfan disaster happened! That was a very emotional episode in my life. I never want to see anything like that ever again! In my opinion, the tip should have been moved well before the rain got in to it, and the old tip came rolling down the hillside on the school and the walls just caved in!

As one of the motorbikes came towards me, I let a big heavy right go, and knocked the rider’s head clean off his shoulders! Fucking hell, the guy’s head was still in his helmet and it was clattering all the way down the road.

As they carried him out, one of his mates came back in and said to me, ‘Do it too me, go on, fucking try it with me.’ I obliged and I flattened him as well and he was laid out in the ambulance next to Big John heading for the casualty department.

As they crept closer, I decided to make my move first and surprise them. I selected my prey, the biggest one! The reasoning behind this is that if you deck the largest and strongest one out of a group then it sends out a clear-cut message to the rest of them.

At that time, there was only one thing better that a good fight, and that was having a good fight and getting paid for it.

Barbarianism and finesse cannot be rolled into one, Pricey defeats this theory. The barbarianism born from his fight to make it in life, his finesse brought about by his sensitivity that was deprived of him when he was a child.

Call Malcolm Price (Pricey) a ‘chancer’ and you would be wrong. Pricey has, with premeditated determination, won his battles and hung his gloves up; his story is no less dramatic or tantalising than that of his Welsh ancestors.

Dicing with death is one man’s cup of tea, but another man’s poison. I just didn’t fear anything.

Everyone in the valleys knew me and because of that, so many people used my name in the valleys that there must have been at least a hundred times a night that the name ‘Malcolm Price’ was used.

Fear was keeping this loon going, as he was scrambling under the tables in this packed club, it was as if he was in a Carry On film and trying to hide from me. As the bouncers arrived, I was putting the boot in to the plonker without much success. He was like a bumblebee on speed!

Gradually, the physical cruelty and punishment beatings started and it got worse. He’d be on his knees to try to teach me how to fight, so my father made out. Whack! His hand would slap in to my face with the full force might of a 6ft 4in 18st man!

He lost a few teeth and wet himself in to the next century. I looked up at his mates and none of them would look me in the face.

He was very cock sure of himself. He came at me and threw a big slow right, but he was so slow that he had telegraphed it to me and I’m ready for it and block it. I put a couple of big jabs on him and he went down like the Titanic, maybe quicker.

I believe in most men there is a certain amount of violence. Every man has a bit of fight in him, but some of them have to look deeper within themselves, further than most. The fight is there if you search for it; people don’t think they’ve got it at all, but they have got it, like the weakest fucking crony you could see on earth. If someone broke in to the house, I believe he’d fucking have a go rather than somebody hurt his wife and kids; it would press him to his limits. If he’s not going to defend his pitch, he’s not worth a cup of cold fucking water.

If I lost a bout then I soon learned not to go home straight afterwards, I would give him time to go to the bar first. Event though I’d go to all of that trouble to escape his ranting and raving, my father would come home steaming drunk, drag me out of bed whilst I was still half asleep and beat the living shit out of me!

I never knew any of these people who were using my name, if I had a fiver for every time my name was used for protective purposes by these people to ward off trouble then I’d be a millionaire many times over by now.

I remember, I walked in to the house expecting to be consoled by my father, but he yelled, ‘What, you fucking lost!’ At this stage I was still only a kid, if I lost then I was given a good kicking by him. He would suddenly turn in to King Kong and proceeded to paint the walls seven colours of shite with me!

I started to turn my life around for the better and try to instil a bit of stability and balance back in to it and take a back seat to violence. I wanted to leave that part of my life behind. The leopard wanted to ditch its spots!

I’ve had guns pointed at me, and I can tell you that it’s not the right place to be standing if some is really mad at you!

Examining the background of anyone can bring skeletons to our attention; a blot on the landscape can mar all what pleases the eye. This is how Malcolm Price was perceived by those who would stand back in fear of what he was all about, yet nothing could be further from the truth!

He caught me neat, right on the fucking face and I took one step back and thought, you’re not getting away with that you bastard! I was punching the piss out of him, he kept going down, but I didn’t kick him, he’d had enough. I didn’t put the boot in to a man older than myself. But this confrontation was out of the blue, out of the fucking blue. That’s what I had to face.

I must have had that Bugsy Malone type of face that attracts every fucker to have a go at me.

In a dancehall in Kendal, I chased the bouncers out of the fucking dancehall, they were wearing white coats and they took these coats off, put them on the floor and jacked; Ginger Harris and me, we put the white coats on and took over for the night!

I wanted to go in one direction, but my father forced me to follow his direction, and, somehow, he won. In one of these compelling situations, he wanted me to join the police force, but he had previously said that I didn’t have the bastard brains to pass my driving test. What a contradiction of terms?

I went for a private sitting with a clairvoyant and got some really good messages off him, but one thing that did frighten me was when he said, ‘I can see a lot of fist fighting with you.

My time as a doorman was quite volatile and bloody, no door registration schemes or training courses could have prepared you for what it was like back then. You didn’t have vanloads of police patrolling up and down the town then, you were lucky if you even seen a couple of bobbies in a car, never mind on foot.

Malcolm Price embodies all that is Welsh, aside from the green valleys and male voice choirs. The will to win against insurmountable odds is a penchant of the Welsh, put this with a propensity to never say ‘die’ and that is what makes the Welsh so durable.

My aspirations never lay with boxing, but that’s the way I was pushed. I was still a choirboy when I started boxing because I remember I went to choir practice every Wednesday night. I missed some Wednesday nights if I was boxing and then when I missed it I’d have to tell the choirmaster why. I had a battle between the choir and boxing. When my voice inevitably broke, boxing won.

Lee Duffy was a man apart and someone who only comes around once in a lifetime, a total one off. There have been a lot of things written about him in the press and it’s always been from the other side of the coin. There are always two sides to every story and Lee’s family have never fully told us their side. They are very distrustful of the press after Lee was made out to be some kind of monster. If Lee had been born and bred in London, he would have been an icon. He was Robin Hood, Dick Turpin and Muhammad Ali rolled into one.

Like Lenny McLean said, and I agree with him totally, he told me it’s these bastards that hurt the old people and fuck up the young kids, they are the animals and they hardly get any prison sentence for it.

Most of the pubs had barred Des, but he came in to the Tiger bar and he points to me and says, ‘And you, out! I want you by the back of the car park.’ So I obliged him and proceeded to kick the poor cunt all around the car park, he ended up in hospital for a week! Eventually, when he came out of hospital he said that I was the best thing that had happened to him, I’d cured him!

My father was always suppressing the softer side of my nature; it seemed to have disappeared in the course of those boxing lessons, that’s what boxing did to me. My father took away the real me and replaced all what I could have been by imposing his brutal regime of terror upon me.