The Guv'nor (22 page)

John came down to the club one night, fought his way through all the birds trying to get his autograph, and got himself up to my office. I gave him a cuddle, because I'm always pleased to see him, got some coffee in, and we had a bit of a chat. I could see in his eyes that he was trying to get round to asking me something but was putting it off. In the end I said, ‘What's up John? You in a spot of bother, or what?'

He said, ‘Len, you know I don't take liberties with our friendship, I never ask for anything, do I?'

I said, ‘Hold up, son, before you go on, I know just what you're going to ask me. You can't handle all these girls that's chasing you all over the place so you want me to take a few off your hands.'

That made him laugh. ‘No, Len, what it is, a very good friend of mine has got himself into a situation that looks a bit heavy and I wondered if you could step in and see what you can do.'

‘Look, son,' I said, ‘you don't have to go all round the houses to ask me for a favour. If he's a pal of yours, he's under my wing. What's the problem?' So he put me in the picture.

This friend of John's, a fella in the same game, modelling, page seven and all that, had got himself involved with a page three girl as well. The trouble was, when they met, she was still going out with a guy from East London who came from a good family of
money-getters
.
This fella had a bit of a jealous streak in him and I can't blame him for that because we can all be a bit possessive where our ladies are concerned. Anyway, the girl got a bit tired of not being trusted and fed up with the boyfriend getting the hump every time she had a photo shoot with some of the good-looking blokes who had to work with. So she wanted to park him up. John's pal knew she was involved with someone, so at first he kept her at arm's length. But as time went by and they couldn't help themselves, they got closer and closer. Somebody put the bubble into the boyfriend and next thing there were some heavy threats being put about.

What can I say? I hate bullies, especially when they're hiding behind menacing phonecalls, upsetting straight people and their families. So I said to John, ‘Get your mate to call round to my house on Monday morning, then I can get all the details from him and work out the best way to settle the business.' This was Friday night. I said ta-ra to John and put it out of my mind for the moment.

I keep pretty late hours, what with the club and other business, so it was about four o'clock on Sunday morning and I was just getting myself ready for bed when there was a bang on the door. I had a quick look through the spy-hole before opening up just in case some mug was going to have a pop with a shooter and all I could see was a face I didn't recognise, covered in blood.

I pulled the door open and this game little fucker said, ‘Hello, Mr McLean, I'm John's friend. Sorry I'm a bit early.' What a state he was in. I'll tell you what, he didn't look anything like the good-looking fella I'd seen in the papers often enough. He looked like he'd been run over by a bus – face swollen up and bleeding, clothes all torn and shivering with shock. I sat him in the kitchen, Val got of bed, and we cleaned up the cuts and bruises as best we could. Once we'd got him a bit comfortable with a big mug of tea in front of him, he told us what had gone down.

Him and a mate, a famous pop star who's since died, were just coming out a club up West when a big flash motor pulled up. Out jumped two blokes and they were both carrying guns. One of them stuck a gun into this bloke's chest and forced him into the car, the other one pointed his shooter at the pop singer and told him to fuck off or he'd get it on the pavement.

Don't ever think that because these lads take up modelling for a living that they're pansified or soft. I know John can handle himself, what with his boxing training, and it seemed like his pal was made of the same stuff. He was wedged between two big guys with a gun
each side of his head and he tried to fight his way out. He landed one of them a back-hander in the face and the other bloke knocked him unconscious. By the time he came to, he was being dragged out of the car in the middle of Epping Forest – near London, nice and quiet, and nobody around to poke their nose in.

There was another motor already waiting in the woods, and out got the boyfriend who had been making all the threats, and has he got the raving hump or what? Two of the blokes force this young guy to his knees and hold him while the other brave bastard sticks a gun in his mouth. ‘One warning … keep away from my girlfriend or you are a dead man.' Then he beat him round the face and head with the gun, threw him back in the car, drove to London, and dumped him in the street.

He didn't want to go home and frighten his mother so he got a cab and had himself delivered to my front door. So here he is, and I've got to square things off for his sake and for John's.

I told him, ‘There are two things you can do. Walk away and don't have no more agg or fight back.'

He said, ‘What do you think?'

I said, ‘Never mind what I think, do you love this girl or not?'

‘Len,' he said, ‘it sounds a bit poetic but I'm willing to die for her.'

That's all I want to hear. ‘Good kid. You won't have to fight and you won't have to die because I'm going to have a few words and get this all straightened up. Now I don't want to upset you but I've got to say that, personally, I think you've taken a bit of a liberty with this bloke. How would you feel if somebody nicked your bird? Still, looking at you sitting there, I think he's gone a bit outrageous so that's why I'm going to help you.'

I didn't have to growl or chuck my weight about because the family I had to deal with were reasonable people. I had a quiet talk with the father of the boyfriend, who had no idea his son was playing up, and we shook hands when he said he would get him back in line.

Everything turned out right. The ex-boyfriend must have had respect for his father because, when he was told to behave, he let it go and never gave John's pal any more aggravation. Him and his girl carried on seeing each other and had a lovely relationship, though I've heard since that he got himself another problem, but this one was something I couldn't help him with. I don't want to say any more about that, I'll just say life's full of ups and downs; some you can sort, some you can't.
I'm still nicking a few quid out of the fights. Not as much as I used to because with my reputation there aren't too many who fancy having the shit belted out of them and losing their money. Still, there's always the odd mug who fancies his chances. One of these was Man Mountain York, and we'd fixed up a fight down at Woodford. Two things happened on that night. Well, three really, if you count the fact that I smashed the bollocks out of Mr York. He'd got them to put on the poster: I am 24, 6ft 7in and 25 stone.
LENNY HAS HAD HIS DAY
. What a comedian. I kept doing his ribs until I'd got him down to about 6ft, then a blinding right stretched him across the canvas. And I was giving him a dozen years.

Before that, though, when I was in the dressing room, a pal of mine said, ‘Guess who's a late entry on the undercard?'

I said, ‘King Kong?'

‘Nah, it's your old mate Quinn, the geezer you was looking for.'

‘Lovely, where is he?'

‘Right next door in the other dressing room. He's in there with York, the bloke you're fighting.'

All these dressing rooms have got connecting doors, so I tried the door and, as you'd expect, it was locked. I've got my wild up thinking about that low-life slag sitting in the next room. Two kicks and I smashed it to pieces and tore inside. They were both shocked enough to look as though they'd shit themselves. I growled at the big fella. ‘Don't fucking move or I'll hurt you now instead of in the ring.' He never said a word.

I got Quinn by the ears and smashed his head back against the tin lockers. It made more noise than hurt him but it frightened him so much he was shaking, then he started crying. I said, ‘Shut up, you mug, you were big enough with a gun in your hand or paying somebody to shoot me. Now look at you.'

He's screaming, ‘Please let me explain … please let me explain.'

The big fella moved behind me and I shouted at him, ‘Keep out of it or you're in trouble.'

Quinn was still crying, ‘Len, please, I was on the gear, I was on drugs … I didn't know what I was doing.'

What am I going to do with this mug? If I'd caught him after the shooting I could have broken every bone in his body and never thought about it. But too much time has gone by and what satisfaction am I going to get out of hurting this cry baby? I flung him down the end of the dressing room and he put his hands up to stop me jumping on him, but I'd finished – he wasn't worth it.
‘Please let me apologise … let me shake your hand.'

Shake my hand? He's trembling from head to foot. ‘OK,' I said, ‘I'll shake your hand to say it's over but I want you dressed and out of here in two minutes. Forget your fight, just get as far away from me as possible.' We shook hands and I never saw him again.

A year later he was found dead with a bullet in his head. I've got to be a bit careful with this one because a lot of people were pulled in over his killing. I had a problem with him and some reckoned I had him straightened but, on my Val's life, I never did. If I tell somebody a grudge is finished, it's finished. I stand by my word and don't sneak up on anyone. Apart from that, I'm a fist-fighter, I don't need guns to hide behind. He was on drugs – he was taking liberties all round. He got what he asked for.

That was before the fight. After I'd fucked off Quinn, I said to York, ‘You can close your mouth now.' He was wondering what he'd let himself in for, and had probably never seen anybody blow up like I'd just done in his whole life. ‘It's too late to change your mind now, old son … see you in the ring.'

Like I said, the big fella got his about five minutes after. So I'm back in the dressing room and, with no door on, I can see him being carried in, still spark out. The next thing I know, some bloke's on my ear'ole.

‘Hello, Mr McLean. My name's Jack Iandoli. Bernie Cole's given me your address but I knew you were fighting here tonight so I thought I'd come and have a word.'

I said, ‘What do you want, a challenge? Who you fronting for?'

‘No,' he said, ‘what I want to put to you is … have you ever considered having a film made about your life?'

I gave him the old cross-eye. ‘If you're taking the piss you'll be the third one to get a bollocking tonight.' Anyway, he assured me he was on the level and would I at least think about it. I was ready for home and my Horlicks so I said, ‘Gimme a bell sometime and we'll have a talk.'

When he came out with it, at first I thought he was a nutter. Who'd want to pay tuppence-ha'penny or whatever to see a film about me? Two minutes and the punters would be asleep. After a bit, though, my nut starts to tick over. Perhaps it's not so stupid. I've been pretty busy most of my life.

I'm the toughest minder money can buy, an unbeatable
street-fighter
, and everybody knows I'm the Guv'nor. Now that would make a blinding title. I can just see it over the local Odeon: Lenny McLean – The Guv'nor.

When the fella gave me a ring a bit later, I was ready for the camera to start rolling. It wasn't as easy as that though. First, a film script. I said to Jack, ‘Remember, I'm no writer – fighting's my game, so I don't know what you expect.'

‘No, Len, leave all that to me. You give me the facts, I'm a brilliant writer, I'll do the script.'

I thought, ‘I don't know about writing but I know you ain't fucking modest.'

So we got together. He stuck a tape-recorder on the table and away I went. I told him all about the fights – this one, that one. How I got started, all about the different people involved – Kenny Mac, Ritchie, Frank Warren, and on and on. When I told him about the American fight he nearly came off the chair. ‘Oh yes, great – oh yes, super angle.' I suppose it was – I never gave it a thought at the time.

For the first couple of weeks after he'd gone off to put it together, I couldn't wait to see what he'd made of it. Then a month went by and it started to go out of my head. If I'm doing something, I want it now, otherwise I'll park it up. I gave him a few rings, but he told me he was still cracking away. So I thought, ‘Oh bollocks, I'll get back to work.'

Giving you a few clues about my life over the years might give the impression that I get up in the morning and start fighting people until I go to bed. What I'm leaving out is the ordinary parts, the good parts that make life worthwhile: my two smashing kids growing up; their first little steps; taking them to the zoo; watching them in Christmas Nativity plays at school; teaching them to ride a bike. All these things make a happy life. And, of course, there was Val and me. The older we got, the closer we became. Again, it's the little things that make life happy.

Going to shows or out to dinner with good people, or just sitting indoors watching telly and having a cuddle, all that is miles and miles away from how I brought bread into the house. I lived in two worlds – one by choice and the other by necessity, because that's all I knew. So my life wasn't all violence, but sometimes it seemed like it. It's like waiting for a bus. You stand in the pissing rain for two hours, then four turn up nose to tail.

It must have been the silly season down the club because there was no end of aggro. Usually the job's nice and steady. All I've got to do is sit in the back drinking coffee. The word's out that Lenny's minding the place and that keeps everything nice.

I was relaxing with a nice lemonade in the back of the club when one of the other minders came over to tell me I was wanted out front. When I got to the door there was this big black guy fronting a little mob of brothers. He was done up like some African chief – funny hat like Tommy Cooper's stuck on his head, and a full-length afghan, bright enough to knock your eyes out. I can see trouble written right across his mug.