The Guv'nor (15 page)

Some slag phoned the police and put my name up. At six o'clock the next morning they crashed through my front door mob-handed. They were looking for a wild animal so they came with the riot gear. I was still half pissed but I didn't have any fight in me. Ten minutes later I was banged up in Shepherdess Walk nick. Not the first time and definitely not the last, but it never got any better.

They kept at me all the time but I just denied it. I'd had a good shower when I got in and my bloodstained gear was stuffed in the
kids' rabbit hutch out in the garden at home. This wasn't a murder charge yet so they hadn't turned my gaff over.

In the end, I said I wanted to speak to whoever was in charge of this case. A CID officer came down to my cell and immediately said, ‘Putting your hand up are you, Lenny?'

I said, ‘No, I'm fucking not! I just want to mark your card about Jimmy. He's a lovely man, he's your own. He don't talk to you people. Right, tell me what you want to nick me for?'

The CID bloke said, ‘We'll do you for attempted murder and a section 18, and we'll get it.'

I said, ‘You know what will happen. You'll get me in front of the magistrate then you'll get me to the Bailey. Jimmy's going to stand up and say, “That man didn't do it – Lenny's my pal!” – case dismissed. Don't waste your time, don't waste mine.'

He just walked out and slammed the door.

And that's what happened. Not quite, it didn't even get to the magistrate. They let me go on bail. When Jimmy recovered he denied I was involved and they couldn't get him to budge, so the law was buggered.

What can I say? I know I can be an evil bastard when I lose my temper, but if it hadn't been for the drink I could've controlled myself. I couldn't change my temperament but I could knock the booze on the head. From that day I haven't touched a drop – not even Christmas, birthdays or weddings. And I'll tell you something else. When I'm in a crowded club and I order lemonade or an orange juice, no one takes the piss. Nobody thinks I'm a pansy – I don't know why.

In future, when I'm being a raving lunatic, belting seven bells of shit out of someone, it will be because I want to. I'll know just what I'm doing. I won't be in a drunken haze, I'll be controlled. I don't suppose I need to point out that Jimmy and me never spoke again after that, though I did read in the papers that he'd got better and gone back to work, because it said he'd got nicked doing the Bank of Cyprus.

There's a little story here. Some chaps robbed the London Electricity Board in Ilford. A copper, a bit of a hero, tried to tackle these lads and copped a bullet in the leg. They all got away. Naturally, Old Bill are doing their nut, so they pull in George Davis, Mickey Ishmael and a pal of mine, Tommy Hole. Davis got a 20, the other two were acquitted. So a big campaign fired off to get Davis out, and if you were round London in the late Seventies you couldn't help noticing that catchy slogan: ‘GEORGE DAVIS IS INNOCENT – OK'
painted everywhere. I used to see it on rooftops and think, ‘Fuck me, how did they get up there?'

So they let George out. Eighteen months later he was caught
red-handed
on the Bank of Cyprus with Mickey Ishmael, my mate Jimmy and a few others, and they all ended up behind the door.

Another pal of mine who was nicked on the same job was Freddie Davis, no relation to George. Years later, I used to go round to his house when he was dying of cancer and try to give him a bit of comfort. Before he got too bad he would get out of bed and we'd have a little spar. It broke my heart to see him, wasting away and still game. He was always a good money-getter, but because he'd been ill he didn't have a penny. So me and a few other chaps arranged a benefit for him in Connie Whitehead's pub, the Crystal Tavern. It went well and we raised about £6,000. Unfortunately, he died before he could appreciate the money, but it helped his wife and paid for him to have a wonderful send-off. God rest him.

Going back to the ruck we had on the car site, Kenny was doing his nut. He had the right hump. I said, ‘What's the matter with you? We nicked enough off the gyppos to pay for the motors that got shot up.'

‘Don't matter,' he said, ‘it's too much aggravation. We're going to have to knock off fighting in the yard.'

It didn't matter a fuck to me where we took on the fights as long as we were well paid. So we started going a bit further afield. One of the places we went to was almost in Scotland – Appleby – where they have a well-known horse fair every year. The gypsies and travellers came from all over the country, not just to trade horses but to have a bloody good show off. Travellers I've spoken to say never buy there because prices for everything are sky high. The sellers know that it's a big thing for the gypsy buyers to pull out a bundle of notes as thick as a mattress and let everybody see they're doing well and can afford anything. We weren't buying but we were after some of that folding, so I took on three gypsies that day, creamed the lot of them and was back home by eight o'clock that night.

Around this time I've laid off the villainy for a bit. I had been picking up good dough with the bare-knuckle fighting, and I was still minding the clubs – not so much for the money but to keep my finger on what was going on.

We started hearing things about a geezer called Harry Starbuck over in South London who was a bit tasty as an unlicensed boxer. He'd had about 30 fights and won them all with knockouts. I put
myself about and found he was under the wing of one of the guv'nors over the south side, Eddie Richardson. I didn't know him personally at that time, but I knew him by reputation. I gave him a bell, and I said, ‘Eddie, I've been hearing things about one of the fighters in your stable and I've got ten grand here that says I can paralyse him.'

I had already introduced myself and he knew who I was. He went quiet for a bit, then he said, ‘Len, we're making a good few quid over here out of Harry – he's the business. If you come over here you'll do him, I know you will, then we're ten grand out and we've lost our pension. So thanks for the offer, but no thanks.'

I didn't want to leave it alone. If there's a bloke out there who can put down six men who've been taking the piss out of him, he's a tough guy and I want him to see that Lenny McLean is tougher still. I don't hide from anybody. A lot of fighters and world-famous boxers pick and choose. They're not mugs – they take challenges from people they're pretty sure they can beat. Not me. I'd take on King Kong and beat the hairy bastard.

Eddie won't budge though, so I left it that when he wanted to call it a day with Starbuck, I'd slip in, do the business, and we'd both make a nice few quid and a load more on side bets.

A year or so later, I was in the Green Man with Danny Kylie, Billy Sutherland and Chris Hawkins. Stuck on the wall was a big poster advertising a match between Donny Adams and Roy ‘Pretty Boy' Shaw. I said to the others, ‘See them two. I could do them both in the same night.'

Then the governor of the pub stuck his bit in. ‘Take a friendly warning, son … that Roy Shaw is a lunatic.'

I give him a look. ‘Shut up, you c**t. You're looking at a worse lunatic.' He said, ‘Yeah, I know all about you, but I know Roy Shaw as well.'

This bloke had just taken over the Green Man from a pal of mine, Lennie Gower, a bit of an entertainer and singer. Lovely man. This new bloke wasn't all that, always putting names up. He reckoned he was well in with everyone. Didn't like me, though; I made him nervous. Anyway, he says, with a bit of a sneer on his face, ‘If you want, I'll put the word to Roy.'

I said, ‘You do that. I've got the money and he can have it on the cobbles or in the ring, with gloves or bare knuckles, either way I'll do him.' With that I stuck a few darts in the poster, and we slipped away to another club.

I didn't go to see the Shaw–Adams fight, but I was told
afterwards that Shawey had done the other bloke in about ten seconds. First punch and he had knocked Adams spark out and earned himself about 16 grand.

I was talking to another bloke and he told me that Harry Starbuck had been to see one of my fights. When it was suggested he challenge me, he said, ‘Fuck McLean, he's a nutter. I've got more sense.' In his way, he was showing me respect. I never met him but I understand he's a gentleman, very polite. And one thing I like is polite people.

A few days later, Roy Nash walked into the pub where I'm sitting. Good man Roy, out of one of the best families.

He got himself a drink and me a lemonade and said, ‘How's it going, Len?'

I said, ‘Lovely, Roy. Glad you've come in, because I think you could do a bit of business for me.' I asked him to arrange a challenge between me and Roy Shaw.

He's given it a bit of thought then said, ‘Leave it with me. I'll be in touch.'

Time went by and nothing happened. Roy Nash is a busy man and all I can think is that he was over-run with work in running his business because he didn't get back to me about my offer of a fight. It must have gone right out of his head. Looking back, I sometimes think that if he'd got something sorted, then come along with me, he might have ended up going to the top of the fight game instead of Frank Warren.

Still, it didn't matter as word got round on it's own, like it does in our circle. I was minding the club one night when Roy Shaw walked in. Tough-looking geezer, those close set eyes of his make him look really mean. He had another bloke with him I didn't know. This other fella was nice and relaxed and introduced himself as Joe Pyle. He said, ‘You know who this is,' nodding at Shaw.

‘I know him,' I said. Roy sat down and never said a word. He was like a volcano ready to go. He didn't look like he was with us, he just stared into his own world with those fucking eyes.

Joe said, ‘How much you putting up?'

I said, ‘I've got people with three grand for this one.'

‘Right, that'll do. He's got a couple of fights to put out the way, then he can take you on.'

Roy and me sized each other up for a minute. Then he said, ‘Make sure you're there.' Then they were gone.

Now I don't want to give the impression that Roy Shaw's some sort of mental case. I don't suppose he's any nuttier than I
am. But he had a way about him where he sort of shut himself off – saw and heard what he wanted to hear. I didn't know much about him then so I thought I'd shoot down to his next fight and check out the opposition.

We found out he'd taken a challenge from a bloke called Lew ‘Wild Thing' Yates, and it was going to happen at the Ilford Palais, so me and Kenny got tickets and drove down there. Shawey could draw a fair crowd. The place was packed with about 1,500 people. All the front rows were taken up with villains and well-known faces. We found ourselves sitting behind Alan Lake, Diana Dors' husband. Yates is a bit of a giant, well over 18 stone, and he's got this shaggy black beard that makes him look like a cave man. When Shaw gets in the ring he looks like a midget next to him. Talk about Popeye and Bluto.

Bang, they're off. Shaw goes at him like a Rottweiler and puts him on his knees. Yates stays there until a count of nine and gets to his feet. In the second round he wakes up a bit and gives Roy some lovely belts to the head – remember, there's 18 stone behind his fists – but Roy didn't even back up. Seconds into the third, Roy tears into that beard and rips up the face behind it. Yates is finished. He's down on one knee leaning against the bottom rope, and his blood's running everywhere.

Then Shaw's dancing all round the ring, pumping the air and shouting out for challenges. Some young bloke, Kevin Paddock, jumps in and it's off again.

I said to Kenny, ‘I'm going up to do him.'

He said, ‘Leave it for tonight, Len, that Pyle bloke said he's going to fix you up.'

‘Yeah, I know, but it could be fucking months – hold me coat, I won't be long.'

As Paddock hit the deck I was out of my seat and barging my way down through the crowd. I was over the ropes shouting and hollering to wind Shawey up so he'd take a pop. Then I was surrounded by all his corner. His manager, Joe Carrington, wants to have a go at me but I don't want to fight him so I just shove him out the way. Then Joe Pyle's got me by the arm and he's saying, ‘OK, Lenny, that's enough, leave it out. You've got your challenge, but not tonight.' So I left it and went back to my seat. The crowd's doing their nut – whistling, shouting, and banging their feet. I don't know if they were for me or against me but I put up two fingers anyway.

CHAPTER SEVEN

F
rom what I was told about his background, Roy Shaw deserves a good gee. Like me, his dad died when he was young. He didn't suffer the violence I did, but his early years were the same as mine; bit of thieving, dishing out violence, approved school, Borstal, prison. Before he got tripped up by the law he'd taken up the gloves, something I never even fancied, and boxed his way through ten professional fights. – 10 wins, six KOs. Like I said before, once you've got a criminal record that's your licence down the pan, so Roy had to give up any plans for a career in the licensed ring. So he thinks, ‘Fuck 'em,' and starts taking his wages out of banks and security vans with the help of a shooter. His biggest and last robbery was a nice little earner of £90,000 from a van in Kent. Then he was grassed up and got a 15. Did he settle down and serve his time? Did he bollocks. He fought every week of the way. If he wasn't fighting other cons it was the screws. Once, when he got a bit upset, he ripped a piece of metal off his bed and smashed his way through his locked cell door. I never heard of anybody else ever doing that.

Nothing they could do to him slowed him down because he was so full of hate for the system, and I can understand that. The screws did his head in so many times with their truncheons he had more scars than hair, and he still wouldn't let up. So they ghosted him off to Broadmoor. Not because he was a lunatic, but because there was no way they could control him.

A lot of straight people get the wrong idea about places like Broadmoor and Rampton. They think anybody sent to one of those places has got to be a mass murderer or a perverted child killer. Well, that's not always the case. If they're like Roy, too tough for the system, they'll be sent to a secure hospital so they can be drugged
into submission. If a con has a nervous breakdown while he's serving his time, he'll get sent there for treatment, nothing more, then returned to normal prison. Well, Roy worked out that they could bang him up for ever in Broadmoor Hospital, so he kept his head down, behaved himself, and was returned to the prison system and finished his time. That's when he took up unlicensed fighting. In his case, legal robbery.

After I was put in the picture about this guy, I had to give him a lot of respect. He'd suffered, he'd fought against the same fucking system I hate and he's come out the other side. He had to be good stuff. Respecting the way he'd handled his life didn't mean that I'd changed my mind about tearing his head off. If he was putting himself on offer, Lenny McLean was going to take it up.

All my camp who had stuck their money up for the side bet were all giving me some earache. ‘Come on, Len, you've got three weeks, get yourself in shape, lose a few pounds and shape up a bit.' Were they joking or what? I could put away a dustbin-lid sized plate of steak, eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes, top it off with half-a-dozen cream cakes, and never put on an ounce. That wasn't going to change. And as for training, I'd never done it in my life, unless you count what Kenny made me do, and that was a waste of time. I did cut down on the fags, though.

Come the night, Chris, Danny, my cousin John Wall and me all drove up to Sinatra's Club. They'd put a ring up in the middle of all the tables. I was sent off to this big dressing room and I was sitting there when Joe Pyle came in, stuffed two crêpe bandages and a pair of gloves in my hands and told me to get them on. This was something different for me. Gloves were for fairies.

Had Pyle pulled a stroke? He'd given me magic gloves. Every time I closed my fist, these gloves would spring open – they'd been fucking doctored. It didn't matter, I'd manage. I got in the ring with Johnny, then all the lights went down and we heard that Gary Glitter record belting out of the speakers, ‘Come on, come on'. Now John's an ex-pro but he turned pale and he said, ‘Look at this fucking raving lunatic coming down.'

I said, ‘Keep calm, John, you ain't fighting him and you know what sort of lunatic I can be.'

Down he comes, shoving people out of the way and knocking chairs over. He might not have been a nutter but he was some showman who knew how to sell himself. He was chucking himself all over the place swinging his arms around. He jumped over the
three ropes and stood there jumping and bouncing up and down. Me, I'm just leaning in my corner thinking, ‘You should be saving your breath, you're going to need it.'

The MC was the famous stunt man Nosher Powell, and he introduced Roy ‘Pretty Boy' Shaw as the hardest man in England – challenger, Lenny McLean. I was just telling John that my fucking gloves keep bubbling up and bang, the bell's gone.

I steamed straight in and belted him, but the gloves aren't doing me any favours. I wanted to rip the bastard things off because they were breaking my fingers. Round one – waste of time.

Round two wasn't much better, but as I couldn't get a decent punch in to slow him down he'd wedged me in the corner and for the full three minutes he smashed me on the head and chin. Round three, exactly the same. To give him his due, he could throw a wicked punch, but I could take every one. Bang, bang, bang. He's giving it everything he's got; he's desperate to put me down. He'd be the first one who ever did. Come the fourth round and we're both absolutely knackered – me from taking his punches and not being able to retaliate and him because of his non-stop throwing of them.

I don't know if you've had a fight as an adult, but if you haven't then let me mark your card. The average person couldn't sustain a real fight for much more than a minute. Adrenaline is pumped into your body but it's short-lived, then you're left drained. So don't think it's strange that we were done in after ten minutes.

Halfway through the fourth I was still laughing at him and calling him names and that was making him wilder and more exhausted. Ding, the bell goes; the ref's called it a day. I don't want to make excuses and I don't want to take anything away from Roy. He gave me some punishment that would've flattened anybody else. But he couldn't hurt me and he couldn't put me down. I've got to hold my hand up. I wasn't fit – I was used to the damage I could inflict with bare knuckles inside the first minute. The gloves didn't help but I let myself down by not being ready.

Before I left, I had a word with Joe Pyle and told him to tell Roy that this business wasn't over yet; I'd be back to finish him next time. Joe just laughed. ‘Good boy, Len, get yourself some money together and you've got yourself a return.'

We came out the back of the club and were walking across the car park when suddenly there were three hefty-looking blokes barring our way. Full of beer, piss and wind, they've got themselves psyched up watching the fights all night and now they think they're Tarzan or
Cassius Clay. One of them put on a voice like a fairy and was dangling his wrist. ‘Ooh, I think these gloves are doctored.' The bastard must have been ringside by my corner. Then they all burst out laughing. Did they think I was tired or what? They were still laughing when I punched them all to the ground. That was more like it, more personal without your knuckles covered up.

I spoke to Bobby Warren a week later. I said, ‘Bob, I think I took that Roy Shaw a bit for granted last time. Sort out a return with good money and I'll definitely beat him.' So Bobby's gone to see Alex Steen and Joey Pyle, who promote Roy and everybody else, licensed or unlicensed, and got me another fight.

In the meantime, Bob said to me, ‘Len, I'll sort the business side, you get yourself nice and fit, and we'll bring your mate, young Frank, in to do all the running about.'

Now Frank is a nice kid, but as I said to Bob, ‘What the fuck does he know about the fight game? He's down the market most of the time, or running the book on point-to-point races and that hasn't taught him anything about this business.'

Bobby said, ‘To be honest, Len, he knows nothing, but he's a sharp kid and a quick learner.'

So that was Frank Warren's first little step on the ladder. That skinny little blond-haired kid went from helping us out to become a force to be reckoned with in the boxing world. He opened everything up. Until he came along, people like Mickey Duff, Barrett and Jarvis Astair had a stranglehold on all the promotions. Little blokes were frightened to step on their toes. Not Frank. He worked hard on the way up, then when he got his promoter's licence he looked round and said to himself, ‘Why should they have all the big venues, all the television bouts, and all the big money with it.' So he grafted well and used his nut all the way until he got the cake, the cherry and loads of cream. He didn't just help himself, though, he helped all the other little promoters. He opened the door for them, so they've got a lot to thank him for.

He has had his fair share of slagging off from a lot of people, but if you get to the top there are always jealous mugs who want to pull you down. Myself, I've got to give him ten out of ten. There was only one thing that gave him a right knock-back and that was the business over him getting shot. It wasn't the shooting that did the damage, it was the way he was attacked in the media afterwards for the way they thought he handled the situation, what with Terry Marsh getting a pull and all that. I don't want to go into detail, after all the man is
family, but Terry got a not guilty and, weighing it up, I don't think Frank could've gone any other way.

When I was in Brixton Prison I flared up at a few people who'd been banged up with Terry Marsh when he was on remand for allegedly shooting Frank. They were saying, ‘This Warren geezer, he's your mate ain't he?'

I said, ‘So what?'

They said, ‘Why couldn't he have said it was a black bloke shot him or somebody masked up instead of fingering Terry Marsh?'

I said, ‘Hold up, don't you talk a load of bollocks about things you don't know nothing about. That man never said a word. It was witnesses that put Marsh in the frame. Another thing is, I don't think you mugs are having a serious pop at Frank, you're just trying to dig me out, and you've given me the hump.' So I well obliged the three of them.

Anyway, going back to the fight, young Frank got stuck in, had the posters and tickets fixed up, and Bobby got a place organised over Croydon way for the fight. That just left me to do my bit and that was to train.

Frank said to me, ‘Tell you what, Len, I'll pick you up in the morning and we'll go over Victoria Park. I'll bring some gear and run with you.'

We got there about eight o'clock in the morning and we're looking round to see where to start. We saw some runners so we shouted over, ‘How far right round the three parks?'

They didn't even slow down. ‘Four miles.'

‘Fuck that,' I said, ‘we ain't in that league yet.' Another load of runners, blokes and girls, steamed past, so again I shouted over, ‘How far round this one park?' What are they on, these people? They were nearly out of sight before I had finished speaking. ‘One mile,' came floating back.

I said, ‘That'll do us, Frank, come on.' We were about halfway round when Frank dropped on the grass.

‘Lenny, I'm fucked. I'm going to have a heart attack … you carry on.'

I said, ‘Come on, we've only done half a mile.'

He got up, coughing and spitting. ‘I shouldn't be doing this,' he said, ‘I'm not fighting.' We finished the mile, though – we walked the rest of the way.

‘That'll do for today, Len,' he said, ‘don't want to overdo it. Let's nip over the pub and have a quick one.' We slipped in the boozer and were both sitting there absolutely knackered. I drank about four
lemonades before I could speak. ‘Frank, son, this is going to be hard work, but I can handle it. I'll be running up Everest in a fortnight.'

So that was the first day's training. After that I said to Frank, ‘You're going to do me more harm than good, you'll hold me back, so the best thing you can do is get on with the promotion and I'll crack away and get myself fit.'

It was a lot more painful than I could have imagined because I was driving myself. I'm proud to think that nothing can beat me, I won't let it, no matter what it is. It paid off and day by day it got easier, so after a few weeks I could run round the three parks and still be ready for some more. I was feeling good.

Frank came back a couple of weeks later and told me he'd had a word with Freddie Hill over Battersea way, a professional trainer who's worked with the very best. I said, ‘Frank, old son, I'm a street fighter, I don't need all that shit.' But he wouldn't let it go. ‘What harm can it do? I know you're the best, but this fella can give you a few tips, sharpen you up – I dunno, give you a bit of ability.'

So I gave in, went over to Freddie's, and he put me through it for seven or eight weeks solid. He taught me all the moves – taught me everything.

One time, I was down the gym having a spar with Kevin Finnegan, who was just the right bloke to get my reflexes sharpened up. We were both sweating cobs so when we finished we slipped out for a drink. He got me a lemonade and Guinness for himself. I gave him a cross-eyed look but I didn't say anything. By the time he was on his fourth pint, I said, ‘Should you be putting that stuff away, Kev? You're taking on Marvin Hagler in three weeks.'