The Guv'nor (16 page)

‘Don't worry, Len,' he said, ‘I can handle it.' He swallowed ten pints that night and was well pissed. I don't think it was a one-off, but nobody could stop him. My mate John went with him to America as the corner boy and he told me that when Kev went to the weigh-in he was dressed in an old T-shirt, jeans and a pair of flip-flops. Then Hagler turned-up in a posh stretch limo, all suited and booted, and his backing mob were all dressed like gangsters. Give Kev his due, even though he was a bit of a piss-artist he stood up to Hagler, who, don't forget, was one of the best middleweight fighters ever, and only got stopped when his eye was too badly cut to carry on. He had a big heart and didn't give a fuck for anyone.

We got ourselves down to Croydon on the night. We were in the dressing room and every five minutes Frank disappeared out of the
room. In the end, I said, ‘You're making me dizzy going backwards and forwards. What's the matter with you?'

‘Lenny, I keep needing a piss, I'm nervous.' It's making me laugh, all this kid's got to do is hold the bottle of water and give the towel a couple of flicks, and he's nervous. Admittedly, he was only young and it was his first fight, even if he was only watching. Outside I'm dead calm, inside I'm boiling to get my hands on Roy Shaw. At that moment I hated him. I wanted to hurt him.

We came out in the first round – I smashed into him – punched him to the floor. He got up and I smashed him down, stamped on him and kicked him. I put the boot in and they jumped in the ring, got me round the neck and pulled me off him. He was dazed but he's not done.

He got up and bang, they let go of me. I steamed in. One, two, three, four punches to the head and he went head first through the ropes. Everybody's going arse over bollocks as he sprawls over the first and second row.

I've done him. Up went my hand as the winner. He's won one and I've won one. So the promotion's all ours. We've nicked it off Joey Pyle, Alex Steen and all that firm. We've nicked it all.

A nice win that, pulled in £25,000, but I wasn't satisfied. I wanted Shaw again. I want him dead at my feet on the canvas. Well, not literally dead, but you know what I mean. I wanted to smash him to bits and show him and everybody else what it's like to come up against Lenny McLean. Knocking him through the ropes was a technical win. I wanted him in the ring and hurt the next time my hand went up.

It's all about money, this game. In the ring or on the cobbles we hate each other. We want to inflict real damage, break bones, get as close to murder as we can. Yet if I bumped into Roy Shaw in the street I wouldn't bite lumps out of him. I'd give him a nod, nothing else, because we aren't in love with each other. But the punters, they take it all in, so they want to pay good dough to see these two blokes tear each other to pieces. My camp know it. Roy's camp know it. So we get a return sorted. A real grudge match.

A lot of people got the hump over me doing Shaw. I think they could see their nice little pension flying out the window. And we started hearing a few whispers that there was going to be a bit of trouble ringside next time we got together. Remember, we're not dealing with Boy Scouts. The money that can be dug out of the fight game has always attracted some very tasty characters.

We went to see our friend Ritchie, who I've told you was well connected with good people in Glasgow. I said, ‘Ritchie, you know about the fight we've organised at the Rainbow, well we've heard there's going to be murders on the night. Can you sort out a bit of help for us?' This man's a gentleman who can be relied on. When he says, ‘No problem,' we can rest easy that everything will be taken care of – no need to remind him, it's done.

A few days later, I got a call at home. I picked the phone up and a Scotch voice said, ‘Lenny McLean?'

I said, ‘Yeah, who wants to know?' A bit aggressive I suppose, but I'm always wary of strangers.

‘My name's Arthur. I'm a businessman up here in Scotland. My good friend Ritchie tells me you might be having a few problems in the future. I've heard all about you and I know you are a good friend of my friend. Let me just tell you personally that anyone who wants to have a go at people under my wing is having a go at me, and that's not allowed – ever. So I will see you at the fight.'

In the meantime I carried on with my training. Even while I was doing it I was still thinking that it was a waste of time. Sweating my cobs off for days on end … for what? Thirty seconds … two minutes? Still, in the very unlikely event of something going wrong in the fight, nobody could point the finger and say I wasn't fit.

Kenny had the bright idea that it would strengthen me up even more if I pulled a car round the park. I had a rope round my waist tied to the bumper of this old Mini, and as I dragged it along I said to Ken, ‘Reminds me of that bastard I bought off you that time!' He reddened up a bit and suddenly had to drop back and tie his shoelaces. He knew he was one of the very few to have pulled a stroke on Lenny McLean.

Finsbury Park, Rainbow Theatre, Monday, and I was taking it easy in the dressing room. Everybody else was flapping around, but me, who was going to do the business, couldn't give a bollocks. I just let them all get on with it.

I closed my eyes for a minute, nice and relaxed, then I heard this voice beside me say, ‘Hello, son.' I thought I was dreaming, until I opened my eyes and there was Jim Irwin. ‘Frank Warren said it would be all right if I popped in and had a word.' I jumped up to get hold of him and he flinched back, then I thought of Mum, sat down again and just looked at the man. I couldn't smash into him, and nothing I said could ever be enough to put over the deep hatred I had
for him. I said, ‘Don't call me “son”, don't even think of me as your son, just fuck off out of my sight.'

He wasn't the man he was – he had lost weight and was looking old. He just stood there with a funny look on his face. Don't the mind work in a strange way? For a tiny second, I felt sorry for him, then it was gone and I screamed at him, ‘Get out of here now, you bullying, gutless bastard, and don't ever come near me again!' I turned my head away and when I looked back he'd gone and I haven't seen him since. He might even be dead and, if he is, he'll be a million miles away from Mum and Dad, because a slag like that has got to be burning in hell.

When Frank showed up I bollocked him for letting Irwin into the dressing room, but I didn't go over the top. How was he to know how much I hated my stepfather? I was too proud to advertise how I felt.

When I'd cooled down, Frank said, ‘Len, I want you to do me a favour. Do what you've got to do to Shaw but don't go too strong if you get him down.'

I said. ‘What's up, feeling sorry for 'im?'

‘No, you know better than that. What it is, we've got all the television people here and on top of that there's a load of officials from the council. I do my best to make you chaps stick to the rules but it's not easy. If they think the show's out of order I won't get another licence.'

I said, ‘The best I can tell you, Frank, is that if he's spark out I won't jump on his head, but if he's still got his eyes open I'm going to give him the full works. Sorry, Frank, but I can't switch on and off like a bloody robot.'

Then Ritchie showed. ‘Been ringside yet, Lenny?'

‘No, why's that?'

‘Arthur‘s turned up,' he said. ‘He's brought a coachload of his men down from Scotland and every one of them's tooled up.'

‘Lovely stuff, Ritchie, we owe you one.'

One of our runners had sneaked into Shawey's dressing room. He was only a kid so no one took any notice. He told us that Roy was walking up and down looking thoughtful. It sounded like he wasn't so confident this time.

Then Gary Glitter started belting out of the speakers, ‘Come on, come on', and I knew Shawey was on his way down. I gave him enough time to start wondering whether I'd bottled out, then I gave it the big entrance. It wasn't that far down the gangway to the ring,
but I seemed to go down it in slow motion. I could see Roy bobbing up and down in the ring; the crowd was roaring and all eyes were on me. I stopped for a second and looked all round at the punters screaming for blood and I thought, ‘You lot have come to see a fight … well, this one you won't forget,' then I climbed through the ropes.

I looked to my left and a row of hard faces stared back up at me. I gave them thumbs down and glanced to the right. There was Arthur, and all around him his tartan mob were cheering and shouting remarks. I gave them a wave, swivelled round, and fixed my eyes on Roy Shaw. He turned his back on me and shrugged off his robe that had ‘Mean Machine' in big letters on the back. He didn't look so cool now and I could see by his eyes that he thought he was going to do this upstart in the first few seconds. Some hope!

We touched gloves. The bell went and he tore at me, his arms going like pistons. He was trying to finish me quick.

He got about four good belts in but two of mine sent him backwards and I kept him going with left and rights to the body. A surprised look flickered across his face and he went down. He got back up, but now he was on the defensive. I've got him … I battered him a full circuit of the ring, then as he gave me two feeble jabs he wasn't quick enough with his guard and I chopped him to the side of his head. For a fraction of a second he seemed to stop dead, then I hit him again and again and again. Solid punches, every one to the head. The ninth one put him down. I've never fought anyone before or since who could've taken half what he did and stayed on their feet.

Frank didn't have to worry. Roy was spark out. He wouldn't need any more to finish him.

His team dragged him to his feet and pulled him into the corner, and as he came to he was trying to carry on. I could hear Joe Carrington shouting, ‘It's over, Roy, it's over,' and Roy was shaking his head saying, ‘Who done me, who done me?' I laughed inside and thought, ‘I done you … Lenny McLean has fucking well done you.'

I swung round to the crowd – they were going wild. I held my arms high and shouted to them all, ‘Who's the Guv'nor?' and a great cheer went round the place. Again, I threw my arms in the air and bellowed out, ‘Who's the Guv'nor?' and the roar was deafening. ‘Lenny … Lenny …Lenny …' Everybody's on their feet. My mob's going crazy and even Roy's lot are clapping and cheering. I'd done it.

I never really set out to become the Guv'nor, but now I was, and nobody would ever take that away from me.

I was in the dressing room afterwards, sitting there having a cup
of coffee and relaxing after my couple of minutes' effort, when I looked up and two blokes walked in. I thought I recognised them but couldn't place their faces. Then the penny dropped and I went, ‘Fuck me, it's Superman.' They both laughed at that and introduced themselves – Christopher Reeve and Gene Hackman. Can you believe it, these two superstars wanted me to sign a programme for them? They congratulated me on the win and we had some photos taken. Years after, Christopher Reeve broke his back in a terrible accident and was paralysed. I hear he's slowly on the mend and I just want him to know that Big Lenny says keep fighting and one day, please God, you'll be back up on your feet.

CHAPTER EIGHT

S
o now I'm the top man. The Guv'nor. I never asked for help or needed it in what I had to do. I didn't go looking for violence in my minding jobs, it came to me. When I went looking for it at the fairs, gypsy camps, or with gloves in Frank's circus, I was doing it for my family – it paid well and gave them a good life. I took on very tough men, a lot of them bigger than me, so I wasn't taking liberties. They knew what they were up against and accepted it. Basically, I hate violence, especially if it's against weak people or the old or the young. I'm not one of those weird people who gets off on hurting others. I do it for defence or money.

Overnight, I'm a bit of a celebrity. I've been on TV and I'm headlines in the papers. I get stopped in the street for my autograph and I'm getting offers for fights from all over the place.

After the Shaw fight I spent a bit of time with Arthur before him and his men went back to Scotland. The last thing he said to me was, ‘Lenny, as soon as you feel like it you and Ritchie come up to Glasgow, stay with me and we'll get a challenge or two thrown out.' I said, ‘Lovely, Arthur – we'll do it some time.'

But that went out of my head for a while because I was getting a bit busy, what with the fights and training and, of course, I'm still doing my minding jobs.

I was down the Swan one Saturday night and I saw this bloke setting up a fish stall outside the gaff. I went over to have a word and it turns out to be Alan Dixon. I knew all about Alan and his brother George, but this was the first time I'd met him. I give him a hand to pull his stall up on the pavement and I started thinking, ‘This bloke used to be doing really well until the law took liberties and fucked him up. I know he's suffered over the last few years and now he's got to start all over again.'

He must have guessed what I was thinking, because he said, ‘You know, I've just come out of a nine stretch. Well, I want to keep my nut down, nick a living, and keep a low profile. So this jellied eel stall keeps me out of the way until I get things sorted and get on the up again.'

I said, ‘I know what you mean, Al, but if you get any problems, I'm just behind the door of this gaff so give us a shout.'

He laughed, ‘Fuck me, Len, it's only an eel stall, how can I have problems?'

One night a few weeks later I had some aggravation with the Watney Street Mob, young tearaways all in their twenties. This mob's always been about. As one lot get older and move on to bigger things, younger ones move in and take over. Same name, different kids, year after year. Anyway, they're smashing the place up, chucking beer about and threatening the customers. So I do my job and go through the lot of them.

Mob-handed, they think they're the business but they've got no chance. Every time I put one down I got him by the neck and the arse and flung him straight out the door. Over the noise of all this ruck I can hear Alan shouting, ‘Ease up, Lenny, you're doing me fucking stall in … Oh, Jesus Christ, Lenny, don't throw any more out.' What's he on about? I had to keep going. After about 20 minutes I cleared the place and I went outside. Alan was laughing and there were bodies all over the place. As I slung the tearaways through the door they ended up against the eel stall and sent it over, tipping whelks, winkles and eels all over the road.

Alan's got tears in his eyes laughing at all these mugs holding their heads and picking themselves off the deck.

I looked at all this man's spoiled shellfish and said, ‘I'm sorry, mate, give us a minute and I'll make it right.' I rounded up all those battered tearaways and gave them a telling off. ‘Because of you lot, there's been a fucking liberty taken here … my friend's had his living kicked all over the road, so what do you say to a bit of compensation for him?' They look at me standing there growling and start digging out a bit of cash. I'm not demanding money, just asking for a little contribution, and those boys were pleased to give it with a good heart. Then I fucked them off.

Al used to be a bit warm on the cobbles himself so he could've nicked his own money back, no problem. But when you've been released from the nick with your bit of remission, you're on parole. You're a ‘ticket of leave' man – any bit of aggro you get up to can put
you straight back to finish the full term, so you have to be whiter than white. Alan couldn't risk putting himself about.

That was something that never worried him or his brothers, George and Brian, when they were on the streets back in the Fifties and Sixties. To give you some idea of how they grafted in those days, when the law put away the Richardsons, they concentrated on getting a result on the Krays. We all know they got that, then they turned on the Dixon family who the law reckoned would try and fill the gap.

I've been up against the Old Bill when they're pulling out all the stops to get what they're after. I know how they work. The Dixons were debt collectors. People would ask them to bring in money that was owed because that was their legitimate business. Remember, the people they had to go after were in the rumping game. That's why there was a problem – they were slags who borrowed money and never intended to pay it back. Being slags they go to the law and start squealing that the Dixons are leaning on them with menaces. Lovely, says Old Bill, thanks very much, just what we want. We won't check out the background too much, just get in and get a good nicking.

So that's what they did. They didn't have enough on Brian, but George got a twelve and Alan went down for a nine.

When Alan came out he kicked off with his eel stall, then he moved up into the wine-bar game and opened a club over in Canning Town. He had his fair share of aggro and I think he got stabbed once, but now that's all behind him and he's just a businessman. George came out a couple of years later, took on a hotel and then expanded into the motor trade. He's nicely settled now down on the coast and doesn't get involved in anything. If ever they've got a problem, they know I'm at the end of the phone and I'm always there for them.

Craig Fairbrass, an up and coming actor who's a nephew of the Dixons, told me it's common knowledge that his Uncle George wears a bullet on his watch chain. Apparently, even though he was on good terms with the Krays, he had a bit of a run in with Ron. From what I've told you about myself, you can understand how easy it is to have a flare-up, even with your friends, if you've got the hump and you run on a short fuse. Reg had marked his card that Ron wasn't too happy, but George wasn't frightened of anybody so he turned up in the Green Dragon down Aldgate.

When he went for a piss, Ron followed him, pulled a gun, shoved it in his face, chipping one of his teeth, and pulled the trigger. The gun didn't go off. Ron laughed, took the bullet out, and gave it to George, saying, ‘This is your lucky day.' Anybody else would have spent the
rest of the night sitting on the toilet, but George took that sort of thing in his stride. And he's got medals to prove it.

He was driving down the road one day when he saw this kid taking shots at everybody. He stopped the car, went back, and took the gun off him.

Another time, a bloke started flashing a gun about in the City Arms, Millwall. George grabbed the shooter and downed him. He was awarded a bravery medal both times. They're good people – they've suffered and both paid their dues. Good luck to them.

Now that my reputation has spread all over, Frank Warren was working overtime. He rang me up one day, all excited, and said, ‘Seen the papers today, Len?'

I said, ‘No, I'll pop out and get one.' So I went round the corner and got myself a
Daily Mirror
and rang him straight back.

‘Have you read about the SAS man who tried to snatch Biggsie the train robber from Brazil?'

I said, ‘Yeah, he's on the front page – so what?'

‘Lenny,' he says, ‘I'm going to try and get a match with you and this bloke Miller. Can you see it – M
C
L
EAN
FIGHTS
SAS
MAN
– we'll rake in fortunes.'

I said, ‘Lay it on, Frank. I think anybody who wants to capture a bloke to face 30 years inside deserves to be beaten to death for nothing.'

Frank got through to this Miller but he didn't want to know. He was nicking fortunes out of the papers and touring round universities telling them what a hero he was.

Frank tried the same with Mr T, the big black guy out of the television series
The A Team
. At that time he was a minder and a fighter like myself, but he'd just been offered the film part, so he didn't want to risk any damage to himself while he had the chance of being a star.

Frankie doesn't give up, though, if he thinks he can make a few quid. A while later he pulled the newspaper stunt again. The phone rang – ‘Have you seen the papers? Go and get one.'

‘Fuck me, Frank, why can't you just tell me what's on your mind and save me the price of a paper?' He loves a bit of drama.

This time he wanted me to fight John Bindon. Now this wouldn't be such a pleasure as taking on Miller, but John was well in the news and that would bring the punters in.

The word was that John had picked up a contract for ten grand to
do away with a bit of a gangster named Darke who was running a little firm on the South side called ‘The Wild Bunch'. Who really chopped Darke to bits in a yacht club over in Fulham I don't know, but Bindon got a ‘not guilty' and that put him in the public eye. As well as being a hard man, he'd done a bit of acting, and often used to pop up in
The Sweeney
and stuff like that. So that was his excuse – he was back in the film world and didn't want to meet me. Frank offered him ten large through his girlfriend Vicki Hodge, the model, but he still wouldn't budge.

He was good stuff though. John and me never fell out and I was sorry to hear he'd died. If he's remembered for nothing else, he had one little trick that at parties he'd do at the drop of a hat – or his trousers. He'd balance six half crowns along the length of his ‘old man'. He used to knock about with Princess Margaret and her mob, and it would be hard to believe that he could resist opening the royal eyes with his favourite stunt when they were all having a knees up on that Caribbean island they used to go to.

I've spoken about Alex Steen and Joe Pyle; good men and well respected. As soon as I had nicked the title from Roy Shaw, they started doing a lot of business with me and, why not, they're businessmen, they want to put their money on a winner.

Joe Pyle has had a great deal of respect in South London for years. Back in the Fifties he was arrested on a murder charge and that was when hanging was still around, but he got a ‘not guilty' and I think he's lived his life to the full ever since. When Roy Shaw came out of his 15, him and Joe became friends and started doing shows together, Roy fighting and Joe promoting.

Unfortunately, my lovely pal Joe got stuck with a 14-year sentence. For most of his time he was banged up on A Section in a shit-hole of a prison, Whitemoor up Cambridge way. When you're on A Section you're watched all the time and in the cell 23 hours a day, so you suffer double punishment. I've still got a letter he wrote to me one year that reads, ‘Len, Christmas was a bastard for all of us here. You probably read about the riots. Well, because of them we spent Christmas day choking on the stink of fires and two inches of water on the cell floor. Wasn't like being at home.'

I won't say anything about Joe's bit of trouble, because after a long struggle he got an appeal hearing and his sentence was reduced to a seven, and now he's free and getting on with his life outside. Good luck, Joey, you've been a good friend; enjoy life, you deserve it.

Alex Steen; now there's a character. Friend of the top people in the underworld and the same with them in what he calls the upper world and well respected by both. He has never done a day's bird in his life but he understood what it was like for those who did end up behind the door, and supported them all the way. He's the only person I know who visited Ron Kray from the first day of his 30-year sentence. There's not much he won't do for his own and there's very little he can't do. He's got the ear of everyone and he uses that to help people, stop wars breaking out, and keep things smooth. With his quiet voice and those dark glasses he wears all the time, his friends call him the ‘Godfather'. I think he loves it, really. Those glasses are no gimmick though; he has to wear them because he's got an eye problem. He's had business with or managed more famous boxers and entertainment personalities than I'd have room to put down here. He's always there for everybody. Apart from his work, he's a lovely family man and grandfather and I've got lots of time for him.

So these two invite me to Alex's office to discuss taking on a geezer by the name of Paul Sykes, who was under their wing. A very tough man, but no fool. In the dozen or so years he'd spent behind bars, he'd not only got himself a couple of university degrees and a City and Guilds in bricklaying, he built himself up to a professional standard in the ring. In fact, he was fighting Gardner at Wembley about a week later. Alex said, ‘If he loses to Gardner I'm getting him to fight you.' I told him I was keen to take on Sykes, but all the ins and outs he could sort out with Frank.