The Guv'nor

by Lenny McLean

  While we were at the races, I was introduced to Ritchie Anderson, the Scotchman who’d helped out when we thought we had aggro at the White Swan. I’d spoken to him on the phone but hadn’t met him until then. He was a decent bloke, knew his way around and was well in with some sound people. He said, ‘I heard about the fight just now. I’d have been over but I couldn’t leave the pitch. You’re as good as I’d heard. Me and you could do some business. Keep in touch.’ And that was that. We blew a few quid on one of Kenny’s certainties, the three-legged one at the back, and headed for home.

  It went a bit quiet for a while and we didn’t get any challenges. Plenty down the Swan, but there wasn’t any money in that, just wages on the door. My name was being put up all over the place now, so I was a bit surprised when we got a tasty offer from the gypsies living behind the car lot. I thought I’d wiped out all their boys. Still, it didn’t matter where it came from; I was ready. A couple of days before the fight, Kenny and me were sitting in the caravan he used for an office, when this tinker and his half-dozen backers came in to check me out. Well, they didn’t say that but that’s what they were up to. Arrogant bastard, full of himself. This was another one who was going to break every bone in my body.

  To give him his due, he looked a bit handy, but didn’t he know it. His mouth was getting my back up but I didn’t say anything. I just let Kenny do the business. He agreed that this was going to be an ‘all-in’, and I thought, ‘Lovely … this leery get don’t deserve a straightener.’

  On the day of the fight, I’d wound myself up. I don’t mind somebody having a go at me, but I don’t want to hear what they’re going to do before we start. So when I walk up the yard I’m in a pretty evil mood. Hennessey, or whatever his name was, was leaning against the caravan giving his mates plenty of old rabbit. He looked at me, looked back at his mates, and I just caught the last bit – ‘fucking wanker’. That’s all I needed. Stuff the ring. I tore into him there and then and didn’t even take my coat off.

  My first couple of belts threw him back against the caravan and his head bounced off the window, smashing the glass. A couple more knocked him clean over the tow bar and he went down. He’s on all fours and he sort of half-turned and looked up at me, so I kicked him in the face. He rolled over and put his hands over his face, but that didn’t protect him because I knelt on his chest and punched the back of his hands until the blood was running out from under them and he stopped moving.

  By this time, we had got ourselves up between the caravan and the shed. He lay there moaning. All the other tinkers pushed past me to help their boy, and Kenny said from behind me, ‘You got to the off a bit soon, mate … they ain’t put their money in yet.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘these lads won’t rump us. Right, which of you six mugs is still holding the bet money?’

  One of them said, ‘Fuck your money, you took him when he weren’t ready.’ I shoved Ken out of the way with one hand and knocked the other fella out with the other. ‘Don’t tell me to fuck the money,’ I shouted at him, but he was already spark out. That was it – they all came at me at once.

  The space we were in was only about 4ft square so the five of them couldn’t mix it all at once, though they tried. I nutted the first one bang in the mouth and his false teeth flew out. He stumbled back but with the others all trying to get at me he got pushed forward so he got another one. Then I just waded into them all. The last one standing put his hand up in a sort of surrender, shouting, ‘Leave off, you’ll get your money.’ The punch in the mouth I gave him taught him to keep his guard up.

  They’re all over the place – lying down, sitting down, and one’s leaning against the shed. I just said, ‘Bring that dough over tonight or fucking else,’ and walked away with Kenny.

  They came back that night – not with the money but with shooters. Luckily, there wasn’t anybody on the site otherwise it might have been worse than it was. They blew a load of windscreens out and peppered the sides of a few decent motors, then fucked off before the law turned up.

  Kenny phoned me at about four o’clock in the morning and told me what had gone down. So I dressed, got in the car and drove over there in twenty minutes. Kenny didn’t want to know about going after this lot, reckoning it would only cause more aggravation for him. But, as I told him, if he’d been living on the car lot he’d be dead now, so he should just tell me which caravan the main tinker was in and I’d sort it. Stroke of luck – this geezer lives on his own, so no wife or kids to worry about.

  Have you ever noticed how flimsy they make caravan doors? Wouldn’t keep a cat out. I climbed over the fence, crept through all the caravans until I got to the right one, and then ripped the door clean off. The bastard’s got my fingers round his throat before he’s half out of bed.

  When you see these tinkers round the streets, you wouldn’t think they had a pot to piss in. Don’t believe it, it’s all front. Stick your head inside one of their trailers and the quality gear will knock your eyes out. Most of the silver and porcelain on display wouldn’t look out of place in a top antique shop. In public they want to look fuck-all. Amongst their own they want to look top dog.

  I said to him, ‘I want ten large out of you now or, on my lad’s life, I’m going to smash you to fucking death.’ And I meant it. This is where deterrents like hanging and long sentences fall down. I wasn’t thinking, ‘Oh dear, I’ll get into serious trouble for killing this man.’ It never entered my head; it did after, but not then. ‘Come on, c**t, get it now.’

  He got off the bunk and I could see his legs were like jelly. He dug around in a fancy cut-glass cabinet and pulled out a roll of notes. He only had seven grand. I told him, ‘I’m going to walk you round this site until I’ve got the lot, so start thinking where we’re going first.’ What a state he looked. He was stark bollock naked, he’d pissed himself and was shaking like a leaf. Then he remembered he had another stash down by the stove. He thought I was going to rob the lot, but I just took my three and flung the rest on the floor. This was a debt, not a robbery.

  Before I left, I marked his card. ‘You boys are all hard men, I know that, but don’t even consider making this into a war you can’t win.’ Then I smashed up a shelf full of china that probably set him back two grand. Spiteful bastard, aren’t I?

  I settled with Kenny and we didn’t have any more trouble from that lot. In fact, they pulled out not long after, but they took the word with them because nobody tried to rump us in that way again.

  I think I’ve mentioned that I’ve never been a liberty taker. I’ve hurt a lot of guys in my life, but they’ve asked for it; either for money on the cobbles, or in the clubs or pubs where somebody fancied their chances and offered me out. But like everything, there’s always an exception, and this incident is the one and only.

  There was this fella by the name of Jimmy Briggs, a good money-getter and game as a bagel. I was driving down Roman Road and saw him walking along, head down and looking a right misery. Mind you, he hadn’t been long out of a ten stretch; he got nicked on a robbery. All the others got away, but Jim didn’t try and do himself any favours, he kept his mouth shut and did the full lot. Good stuff, Jim.

  So I gave him a toot on the horn and over he came. I said, ‘You’ve got some face on you. What’s the matter, lost a tanner?’

  He said, ‘Hello, Len, you gotta be joking, I never had a bleedin’ tanner to lose, I’m skint. Trouble is my boy’s in Stamford House and I can’t afford to get down to see him.’

  ‘No problem, Jim, I’ve just had a result. Cop this pony, and buy him some fags and sweets and I’ll run you down there.’ Silly sod got all emotional, but I’ve got time for people who look after their own like he did.

  We had a decent visit with his boy. It seemed funny being back in the old school, though. Afterwards, we stopped in a pub, had a few bevvies, then another. We sank a few more in Riley’s up the Angel and finished up in the Green Man back in Hoxton. We’d had a good day, we’re laughing and singing an
d well tanked up. Jimmy started chatting up this bird. She wasn’t my cup of tea, all tits and peroxide, a bit too flash really.

  Anyway, we’d met up with a few more mates by now and decided to go back to Riley’s. I said, ‘Come on, Jim, we’re off somewhere else.’

  ‘OK, Len,’ he said, ‘with you in a minute.’ No problem. Then this bird sticks her oar in.

  ‘He’s not coming with you, he’s staying with me.’

  I gave her a bit of a funny look. ‘Do what, sweetheart? Jim makes his own mind up.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said, ‘he’s fucking well stopping with me.’

  I wanted to give her a smacked arse, but I held back. ‘’Scuse me, you saucy prat, don’t you swear at me.’

  Then Jim has to open his gob. ‘Don’t you have a go at my bird, Len, or I’ll put one on you.’

  His bird? He’s only known this woman for five minutes and he wants to fight for her honour. ‘Jimmy,’ I said, ‘we’ve had a lovely day. We’ve seen your boy. I’ve fronted you so’s you could treat him. I bought your drinks all day. I don’t begrudge you a penny, but you’re going to spoil it all for that piece of skirt?’

  What does he do? He swings one at me. Now I’m mad. I’m very pissed and I’ve lost my rag. I pushed him away but he tried to dig one into me again. That’s it. I got him by the neck and dragged him outside. I let him go and he kicked me, so I hit him on the chin. He went arse over bollocks and when he jumped up I could see from the way his jaw was hanging that it was broken.

  He stood there spitting blood. I’ve lost my head by now. I punched him twice in the face, broke his nose, hit him again in his jaw and he went down. As he lay there I flung myself across him and punched his head half-a-dozen times.

  Now I’ve broken my own thumb and little finger so I can’t punch him any more. He was choking on the blood from his jaw, so he arched upwards, pushed his head back and as he did that I nutted him right between the eyes. I’m ashamed to think back on how I battered that man. I know he started it and I know he was big enough to look after himself, but I went way over the top. I knelt beside him and looked at his bloody face; then I was aware of screaming, shouting and kicks and blows raining down on me as people from the pub tried to stop me doing any more damage. I was finished, though, and sickened by what I’d done.

  The state of his facebrought me to my senses. I punched everybody out of the way, and fucked off in the motor. I found out later that a few blokes carried him to St Mary’s Hospital, that was only 20 yards away. While the porters were rushing about like lunatics, Jimmy died on the trolley. Lucky for him and very lucky for me, the doctors managed to bring him back to life. His jaw was broken in five places, his nose and a few ribs were broken, and his skull was fractured from where I nutted him, but, thank God, the surgeons managed to patch him up.

  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.’