The Guv'nor (24 page)

‘Sweetheart, I'm all yours,' got another blush and giggle. What she wanted me to do was mind the cast of
EastEnders
when they had a bit of a knees up. This do was in L'Escargot in Berwick Street.

I'd been telling a pal of mine, Oggy, about this party I was going to mind. He said, ‘Len, I'd love to get in and meet all the stars.'

‘No problem,' I said, ‘when the time comes, I'll slip you in.'

So I was just inside the door keeping photographers out and making sure everybody behaved. The stars came in and as they went past me they'd say, ‘Cor, you're a big fella. We're well minded tonight.' Dot Cotton, or whatever her real name is, gave my muscles a bit of a squeeze and went, ‘Ooo-er.' Lovely woman. I took to her more than any of them. Some were a bit stuck up, but not her. Then up came Peter Dean who acted that silly prat in the market. He don't say hello or kiss my arse, he just gave me his coat. ‘Hold up,' I said, ‘don't give me your fucking coat, hang it up yourself. Cloakroom's over there.' He gave me a look but went and did it.

Everything was sweet and I was chatting to this one and that one,
and back he came. ‘I thought your job was to keep gatecrashers out.'

I said, ‘You're right, what's the problem?'

He didn't look happy at all. ‘I've just bumped into Peter, a bloke I used to go to school with. Well, he's not in the business so I don't think he should be here.'

I said, ‘Don't you worry about Oggy, he's with me.'

He stormed off and I thought, ‘Hello, he's going to complain that the hired help's getting above itself,' but nothing more was said.

It's funny, really. I find that actors and actresses who are well up the ladder are nearly always as good as gold. It's the bit players and hangers on who have their noses in the air. One actor I do have a lot of time for is Chris Ellison who played Burnside in
The Bill
. I met him while I was minding the cast and I couldn't help pointing out that he reminded me of Bob Hoskins. He seemed genuinely pleased. ‘I take that as a compliment, Len, but I'd rather have his money.' He's one of your own and though he lives down in Brighton I do meet up with him every now and then.

Reg Kray had asked me to pop down to the movie set where they were making the film
The Krays
just to see how things were going and keep him in the picture. I was sitting there once and up came Billie Whitelaw, who was playing Violet Kray, and she asked me ever so politely if, when she came to do the scene where she climbs into the ring, I would help her up. ‘My pleasure,' I said. She came down and, while the camera was running, I helped her up. She did her bit and, still on camera, she went, ‘Thank you very much, Lenny.' Beautiful woman, lovely actress, and a proper star.

The next thing I knew, the cameraman's daughter was trying to climb up the other side of the ring. I thought, ‘Another lady in trouble – I'll do the same for her.' I put my hand on her arm to steady her and she went, ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, … take your hands off.' I went mad. I called her all the names I could think of. Her old man came over and I threatened to punch his stupid head off. It was bloody chaos. The director said he would shut down filming if I didn't leave the set. He was polite, though – he didn't want to risk getting thumped himself.

Another time I visited the set with a very famous boxer out of the East End, Ted ‘Kid' Berg. He was a lovely old fella, well in his seventies, but still as game as a bagel. Alex Steen was there and Charlie Richardson's son, Lee, with his pals. None of us are a bit shy when it comes to earning a few bob, so when the film people want extras for ringside, we're all up the front on wages. The Kemp
brothers are in the ring being Reg and Ron, and we're supposed to be cheering them on. I was giving it some, yelling and shouting, ‘Come on, Reg … come on, Ron,' and, beside me, Ted's shouting at me, ‘When do we get paid? When do we get paid?' Have a look at the film. You'll see us all there. Sadly, Ted died not long after. He was a legend and will always be remembered.

I had a lot of time for Reg and Ron Kray, and whenever I got the chance I slipped in to see them. Visiting was a bit restricted for them both, so it wasn't too often. If they needed any favours done they knew they only had to ring Lenny. When they were out thirty years ago I knew of them and I saw them in passing, but I didn't really know them personally. It was only since they'd been away that we became friends, after they heard of me and asked me to visit.

The first time I went to Broadmoor with Alex I didn't know what to expect. I mean, you hear stories and don't know what to believe. On the way in, I said to Alex, ‘Fucking grim old place this is.' He pointed through a gateway and I looked – it was all gardens with trees, flowers and shrubs, really nice and peaceful. Inside, we got all the business. Security check, photos on computer and all that, then we were taken down miles of corridors to the visiting room. Ron was already there because they bring them through first. He was sitting down, but as we came in he stood up for us – a proper gentleman. The patients are allowed to wear their own clothes, and this man is immaculate. He didn't have a hair out of place, his suit was nicely pressed, and you could see your face in his shoes.

We sat down. I put a cigarette in my mouth and Ron was there with his lighter. As he lit my fag I couldn't help noticing his cuff links – gold and diamond with two ‘R's on them. I've seen doctors and lawyers who were more menacing than this polite and considerate man sitting opposite us. I kept looking at him and wondering how he had had a stranglehold on London in the Sixties. He appeared to me like a man you'd let babysit your kids. All right, he knows what he did. I know what he did. But it was all kept within the underworld. The same as me really; I've never crossed the fence to have a go at some straight guy.

While we were talking, he said, ‘Len, do you know Roger Daltrey?'

I said, ‘Yeah, everybody does – good singer, good actor. Why, what's the problem?'

‘Do you think you could get hold of him and bring him in to see me as soon as possible?'

I said ‘Ronnie, consider it done. What do you want me to say? You want a bit of a chat?'

‘Say nothing, Len. Just get him here so I can plunge the fucker.' As he said that he stabbed this imaginary figure in front of him. One of the screws – or nurses as they call them – looked over a bit
cross-eyed
but didn't come near us.

Alex calmed him down and asked him what it was all about, and he said, ‘You know he was going to do the Kray film before this other lot took over? Well, he's taken a few liberties and now he's going to get what Cornell got.' I just said, ‘Leave it with me,' and changed the subject.

On the way home, Alex said, ‘That business with Daltrey … I think it's all a bit of a misunderstanding, so don't get too involved.'

I said, ‘I already thought that myself. I think Ron gets a bit frustrated because he can't deal personal with his own problems. I can't go round tugging big stars so they can be murdered, but if he asks me again I'll have a quiet word with Roger.'

So, Mr Daltrey, thank your lucky stars Big Lenny doesn't always do what he's asked, otherwise you'd have got your wish to die before you got old. Ron never referred to the incident again.

Sadly, Ronnie died not too long after. I wasn't surprised really because he used to smoke 50 fags in a two-and-a-half-hour visit.

Peter and me were invited to his funeral and I've got to say it was a blinding send off. The church service was just like you'd want if you were seeing your dad off, but outside the miles and miles of crowds made it like being in a circus parade.

One thing that lightened the mood a bit was when the driver of our limo got himself lost on the way to the cemetery. One minute we were all in this solemn line of cars, the next we were on our own doing about 80mph out of the East End as the bloke panicked. The roof of the Bentley was covered with wreaths and flowers and we were doing a circuit of Brands Hatch. There was me, Eddie, Peter and a couple of other faces hanging on for dear life. Eddie leaned over, tapped the driver on the shoulder and said, ‘What you doing next week pal?' The driver's red in the face, sweating cobs and shitting himself. He goes, ‘Nothing, why?'

Eddie – dead pan – said, ‘We're planning a blag and want a driver who knows his way about.'

Of course, we all pissed ourselves as the driver nearly burst into tears, shouting, ‘It's all right for you to take the piss. It ain't my bleeding fault, I'm from over the river.'

Having known Ronnie made me realise the difference between old-time villains and the toe-rags about today. I know it's been said many times, but if men like them were still active, the streets would be a lot safer. Charlie Richardson put it in a nutshell. He said all the chaps from the old days, including himself, are like dinosaurs. Today, there are villains out there who would kill women and even babies if it helped them earn a living, and I know that the Twins or any of the others would never have been involved in anything like that.

Now Reg is a different man altogether. Polite, considerate and smart, Reg is a live wire. His mind's going all the time. He doesn't want visitors who sit there talking about the old days, this club, that club, old so and so's died. He wants to talk about what's happening, get involved, do this deal, do that deal. On the ball all the time. Again, there's no menace, and he speaks in that soft voice.

I once took a lovely up-and-coming actress in to see him, Sandi Carter. She's the wife of a pal of mine who runs London's Hippodrome. We laughed about a scene from the Kray movie. When Billie Whitelaw, as Violet, is having the twins, she's screaming and kicking her legs in the air – well, the legs weren't hers, they were Sandi's. Still, it was a couple of parts in a film for her.

When I was talking to Reg on the phone one day, I told him about my book and asked him if I could take his photograph to put in it.

He said, ‘You know they won't like it, Len.'

‘Don't tell me, Reg, I know what the bastards are like, but if you don't mind I'll have a go.'

Next time I visit I'm kitted out with a camera my book man fixed up. I pick my moment and ‘click, click' I've got it. No flash, very fast film.

Over comes this young screw. ‘You're taking photographs,' he said.

‘Who do you think I am, David Bailey?'

He looked down his nose, so I got up from the table and steered him away. I didn't make a fuss and spoke quiet and polite. I said, ‘Look, don't you think that man sitting there has suffered enough without you making a ruck on his one weekly visit? Go and have yourself a coffee and never mind what I'm doing.' To give him his due, he fucked off good as gold. I wouldn't say he was intimidated by me, he only had to blow his whistle and he'd have got us all in trouble – he just saw reason. Good man.

Back home, I got a call from Arthur. He said, ‘I sent one of my men down to London on an errand, and he's got himself picked up by the law. Can you help out?' I'm on to it.

Apparently, Arthur had sent down £20,000 in cash to cover a deal. The bloke carrying the dough arrived in London with the money in a little case, but after he had a few drinks, for his own reasons he'd transferred the money into a plastic carrier bag. By two in the morning he was pissed and nearly legless. Staggering along the road, he bumped into Old Bill and they gave him a tug, checked the bag and whipped him down the nick.

When he sobered up he wouldn't say a word, so they held him. By the time Arthur found out where he was and got in touch with me, he'd been held for three days. I went into the nick, approached the sergeant on the desk, and said, ‘Excuse me, I understand you have a friend of mine here who has £20,000 belonging to me.' Arthur didn't want his name brought up with this business, so I made a few phonecalls before I turned up. When the law wanted to know all the ins and outs, I told them that a boxing promoter in Glasgow had sent the money as an investment in my film. They checked my story, which I'd set up already, and they had to let the money go – they were choked.

I went to a room to pick up the money and there were two CID officers waiting for me. As I went in, one said to the other, ‘Go and make Mr McLean a cup of tea.'

‘Forget the fucking tea,' I said, ‘just give me the dough.'

‘No, I insist, my friend here will make you a nice cup of tea.' Anyway, he's counting the money out and saying, ‘If I want I can make things really difficult. I could have all these numbers on the notes checked for a start.' I warned him not to fuck with me.

I delivered the money and phoned Arthur. ‘Sorry, mate, it took a while to get it.'

‘No problem, it was a bit hot anyway. And, by the way, tell my messenger not to bother coming back to Scotland.'

I said, ‘I don't think he has to be told.'

It's a pity the money wasn't really for the film because we were still scratching around for finance and every little helps. Then my Italian friend rang me from Canterbury to tell me that he'd heard we needed money. ‘I've made a few phonecalls to America, and if you can get over there it may do you and your film some good. Go to the Plaza as before, book in, and someone will contact you.'

What could I say but ‘Lovely'?

I got in touch with Jack and he got all excited. I had to slow him down a bit. ‘Don't forget this trip's coming out of our own pockets, not like before when I went over there.'

‘Worth laying out for, Len … we'll be able to raise £5 million from those Yank film people, that's peanuts to them.'

‘Yeah, we'll see.' I was excited myself, but I didn't go overboard.

We got ourselves over to America, although it stung a bit coming out of our own pot. We parked up in Room 44 and waited for our meet. After a few hours, we were picked up and driven to another hotel. Here we go. Same mob as before, different faces.