The Guv'nor (32 page)

YES! THE GUV'NOR'S GOING HOME!

EPILOGUE

A
fter my ‘not guilty', I was sent to Wandsworth to finish what remained of an 18-month sentence for grievous bodily harm. I could take prison once that terrible charge was lifted and after that I could relax, do my time and plan my future.

My pal John Perry, who helped me face the ordeal of the Bailey, got a sentence of six years a few days after me, but what with his three-and-a-half years on remand taken into consideration, he didn't have to face too much time.

After a bit of a holiday to let my nerves settle down, I was ready to go back to work. All the time I'd been away that lovely man Mick Parker, director of the Hippodrome, had made sure my wages were there for Val every week without fail. He got a buzz from up top saying, ‘Knock Lenny's money on the head,' but good stuff that he is he wouldn't have any of it. He stuck by me when I came out as well.

I got loads of bad write-ups in the papers saying I was a lunatic, a crank and a nutcase, so the owners didn't want me back in the club. Mick couldn't get round that one, but he didn't kick me out; instead, he got me fixed up in one of his other clubs round the corner. I can't speak highly enough of him. He's not only straightforward, he's one of the few people in that game who are honest with themselves and others. He doesn't lift a tanner for himself – everything the club takes, he declares. What a diamond.

A few months after I was sitting in the nick, I found myself parked up in a comfy armchair in the House of Lords. Isn't life strange?

Alex Steen had said he wanted me to meet someone. The next thing I knew, we were being escorted through the posh halls and corridors of one of the most famous buildings in London. It was a beautiful place – oil paintings on the walls of top people from the
past. Eventually we were shown into a sort of reading room and asked to sit down while we were announced to our host. I still didn't know who I was going to see, and any minute I expected Margaret Thatcher to come through the door. After a bit, Alex gave me a nudge, pointed towards the door, and through it came Lord Longford.

Now this man was not one of my favourite people, but I was polite and we shook hands. He ordered tea and cucumber sandwiches and we sat there chatting about my case and other things. After a bit, lord or no lord, I had to say what I was thinking.

‘Tell me,' I said, ‘why is it you spend all your time trying to get nonces and perverts out of the nick – you know, people like the Moors murderers – instead of making an effort to get people out who've been fitted up. And there's more than one of them in the system.'

A typical politician, he wouldn't give me a straight answer. He just rabbited on about Ian Brady not wanting to come out and Myra Hindley being a changed person who's completely rehabilitated. I'm not an idiot when it comes to social graces, so I know you don't start telling a lord that he's talking cobblers, no matter how strange his ideas are, so I let it go. But I'll never understand the way he thinks. I've got to say the day was an experience, though.

Jack Iandoli never showed his face again after I bollocked him, so as far as I was concerned, all that book stuff was down the pan. For a bit, I thought the same about the film, because after all these years even I was getting a bit disheartened. Then I got a message from Stallone through my pal, the stuntman Dave Lea, saying, ‘Tell Lenny that the script for
Rocky
was kicked about for ten years before it was taken up.' So I thought, right, let's get it sorted.

Me and one of my pals, who'd put money up for the script, went down to Pinewood studios, dug out Sheena Perkins, and parked her up. She was still saying, ‘Don't give up, I'm getting it together,' but I told her to forget it and just give us our script back. We went into the canteen for a coffee before setting off home and while we were sitting there, two fellas came over.

‘Lenny McLean? Nice to meet you. Just want to say we've heard all about you and want to shake your hand.'

I asked them to sit down and we chatted for a bit. It turned out these guys were directors. Now I'm not slow when I see an opening, so I pushed over the script we had just nicked back from Sheena Perkins. They scanned through it, sat back and said, ‘This is brilliant, we'd love to get this off the ground.'

Who would argue with that? Remember, this script has been here, there, and even been taken to America, and we were still no further forward. Within a couple of months of striking a deal, these two geezers told me they'd got the wheels turning and, as far as I was concerned, everything was under way. Was I wrong, or what?

I should have sussed something was going on when these two bastards were into my ribs every five minutes for a bit of cash.

What had happened to my third eye that can spot trouble before it happened? Was my judgement put on hold because I was too keen to get the film off the ground? Don't forget, I had to look out for a lot of pals who'd put up hard earned dough because they trusted me and had faith in my movie. I'm telling you this in hindsight and, looking back, all the signs of a scam should have been obvious. But being a bit naïve in those days, I thought that if people were working out of Pinewood studios, they had to be the business. Now I know that if you've got two bob for a bit of rent – bosh, you're in the film game.

So time went on. Whenever I got in touch with them, I'd hear, ‘Everything is on line, Lenny. We should be in production next month. Oh yes, before you go, could you find £10,000 so we can start ordering props.' I put up with that bollocks for two years and all that was happening was that my hair was getting thinner and those two bastards were getting fatter.

With no film and out of pocket by £200,000, I made up my mind to pull the plug. By then, I was well aware that the first guy was nothing but an errand boy with a plausible front and a good line in old fanny. The other bloke, for all his fancy talk and royal connections, in my mind was a professional con man and a dirty slag. If they weren't straightgoers I'd have hurt them both badly. But as I have said before, what's the point of doing time over no-value dogs? I rang one of them and told him I wanted every penny back. What did he do? He threatened to call the police if I showed my face near the big house he lived in – the house that my pals and I had paid for.

It's funny how life is. I hadn't seen any of the Hayes family since we moved away from Godwin House nearly 40 years ago. Then a few weeks ago, I was walking down Roman Road and there was Alfie and Timmy. I couldn't believe it – they hadn't changed a bit. I took them home for a cup of tea and we talked about the old days for hours. We were little kids in those days so there were lots of things we never knew. One of the things they'd found out since was that their grandad used to train and organise fights with my uncle Jimmy Spinks. Small world.

A few weeks after that meet, Billy Hayes turned up on my doorstep, that smashing fella who had taken me under his wing when I was a little kid. I haven't been able to remember every detail of my past, and he reminded me about how he introduced me to boxing down Repton Boys' Club. He also reminded me that while I could handle myself in the ring, even at eight years old, I was a bit too strong-willed to take the discipline. He added that he'd married Pat, that beautiful girlfriend of his we had such lovely days out with all those years ago.

Talking to Alfie, Timmy and Billy made me think about what might have happened if we hadn't moved away from Bethnal Green and the Hayes family. If we'd stayed, I know I would've gone to work with them down the market. I'm not stupid and I'm a good grafter, so I think I would've followed the same path as those other boys, instead of the one I did.

And what a stony path it's been. I was battered senseless over and over again as a child. I've had between 2,000 and 3,000 fights, some in the ring, many on the cobbles, and many more in the pubs and clubs I've minded over 20 years. I've been shot, stabbed, and I've suffered the psychological damage of being charged with murder. And I think it was that threat of being lifed that changed my life and made me think twice about where I was going.

It's funny how things happen. I was thinking about a different move when I bumped into Mike Reid when we were both visiting Reggie Kray in Maidstone prison. On the way out, Mike said to me, ‘Lenny, you're a bit of a character, why don't you get yourself into the acting game, it's money for old rope. I only act myself and I'm doing alright.'

It made me laugh at the time, but after I'd thought about it, it wasn't such a stupid idea. I've been performing all my life one way or another, so look at it this way – belt somebody outside and they give you two years; do it on screen, and they give you two grand. So I went for it.

I got myself an Equity card easy enough, because over the past few years I'd appeared in quite a number of adverts, though I got a knock back on one I did for BT when the wife of Gary Humphries complained about a murderer making money from phonecalls. For Christ's sake! I was innocent. BT still cut me off, though. I did wonder if she'd try the same stunt again if I put myself forward for a part, then I thought, ‘Oh bollocks, if Leslie Grantham can make a good living after a “guilty” for murder, I'm sure I can after a “not guilty”.'

I got webbed up with a decent agency and in two minutes they stuck me up for a part in the television series
The Knock
. Was it a schoolteacher or a priest? No – it was to play a villain called Eddie Davies. I only got the part because the producer, Paul Knight, argued against a lot of others who thought I was too real.

‘This man's a bare-knuckle fighter and a bit of a lunatic – we want a real actor.'

But that diamond Paul stuck out his neck and gave me a chance. I've got to give him bundles of respect for that. He allowed me to move out of a dirty and dangerous world into a world where I could make a decent living amongst decent people. I know I justified his faith in me, because I was invited to do a second series, even though that meant rewriting scripts. Eddie Davies was put away for years in the first series, but, in order for them to put me back in, the writers turned his sentence into a suspended.

After that, I never looked back. Talk about turnaround. My next big part was playing a police Chief Inspector in the Bruce Willis film,
Fifth Element
. My latest film has been playing Barry the Baptist – yeah, it always gets a laugh. No, this bloke doesn't follow Jesus, he drowns people – a real nasty bastard.
Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels
– blinding film – look out for the hardest man in Britain acting alongside the hardest man in football, Vinnie Jones.

I'm on my way up. St Johns Wood today, who knows, Hollywood tomorrow.

There were loads of times when I was working on this book that I thought one day, perhaps when I'm in my seventies, I would have to put together a sequel. I'd told of my life up until now, but once that was out of the way it didn't mean I was ready for the pipe and slippers by the fire. No, my intention was to carry on living life to the full like I've always done. And my way, being a bit out of the ordinary though not intentionally, would have made interesting reading for those people that look up to the Guv'nor.

Well it's a thought that I'll never have to think about because the day the doctor told me I had lung and brain cancer was the day the final full stop was put on my life.

I've lived a dangerous life and could have died a hundred times over. But even when I faced guns and knives, or the blood was pouring out of me, I never considered the possibility that my days might be numbered. Though I've got to admit that over the last few years, what with the deaths of pals like Ronnie Kray, Ritchie Anderson, Alex Steen and others, it was brought home to me that
nobody goes on forever. OK, most of them were ten or more years older than me, but when you're my age and you go to funeral after funeral it makes you realise our time in this world is limited. It didn't worry me too much, just firmed up my conviction that you have to live every day to the full – do what you have to do and never have regrets because, believe me, you never know just what's around the corner.

What has been devastating has been the speed of this illness that's overtaken me. One minute I'm looking years ahead, planning a comfortable retirement with my Val and a steady stream of decent roles in the film game – then bosh, it's all over. And really it all just crept up on me without even giving me a clue that anything was happening.

I told you about the film
Lock Stock & Two Smoking Barrels
. Well, when I was on location some of the scenes were shot in a big warehouse and, to get on set, you had to climb about four flights of stairs. I'd go up one flight then have to stop to catch my breath. Three flights and I was absolutely shagged out. By the time I got to the top I felt like I'd climbed a mountain. I can remember thinking, bastard flu – once you get it, it hangs on forever. Only way to deal with it was cut back on the fags and step up the training.