The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) (54 page)

Roy Shaw, as guest of honour, had taken his place at the ringside and the place was packed. So we warmed up again. While on the pads and getting a light sweat on, another call came in: we were now on sixth. It was stand-down time again and Joe was starting to get very heated: “If this mush is not here soon, any one of ’em will do.” I told him that this was normal routine in amateur, unlicensed and even pro events. So off we went again, another call and we were due on eighth but he still wasn’t there, then ninth!

By now Joe’s eyes were glazed over and he was pacing and staring at people. The ever reliable Steve Holdsworth of Eurosport came in the dressing room to calm him down. But now I had the old
cobble-fighter
on my hands and I could tell not many double jabs were going to be thrown: it was going to be a smash up!

Then the guy arrives, gets weighed in with Joe in his face, gets changed and waits in the passage near us, not a clever move. Every time Joe saw him another vein popped up in his temple. Joe walked up to him and said something that I doubt was “lovely weather” and the guy, a big, tall, gangly bloke, looked stunned.

Finally, we warmed up and were on our way to the ring. A slight touch of gloves and ding! The bell goes. But this guy did not want to punch, he wanted to come in with both arms and smother his opponent. We had been told he would do this and had prepared for it, practising stepping under the guard as it came down and smashing an uppercut into the unguarded chin. But Joe had lost it and the guy was like an octopus all over him. Then it happened; frustrated, Joe leans back and cracked his head right in the guy’s face. So then the guy tried wrestling for his life and both ended up on the canvas, rolling around, kicking and punching lumps out of each other.

In the packed crowd half were for the other guy and half were hard-arsed gypsies. The crowd turned on each other with fists and chairs flying. Joe was still punching his opponent on the deck screaming, “Get these poxy gloves off me.” When he got up his hand was raised because of his opponent’s persistent holding and refusing to punch. As we looked back, the referee was rolling around the canvas with this bloke and had taken over where Joe left off! We all howled with laughter as fighter and ref had it out and all we could hear from the referee was: “I never liked you, you fucker!”

As a chair landed in the ring, we turned our attention to the crowd. Security had made a passageway for us through the gypsy’s supporters to get us out of there and we had a few limos lined up. Then we heard what sounded like firecrackers, until one of the security guys shouted: “Fuck me! They’re firing shooters.” There were firecracker bangs and pings all over the place. A few of the other firm tried to punch us on the way out and we stopped and smashed them in the face with chairs!

There were a few strangers lined up with hands in pockets outside, so we made straight for the limos and drove off, pissing ourselves laughing as we went. When things had calmed down a little, Joe spluttered: “That fucking curry house I booked better still be open, I’m starving now.”

They opened the restaurant as we arrived mob-handed in
different
limos and checking for holes in ourselves almost in their foyer! That kind of night never puts you in the mood for a jobsworth. Our waiter refused to sell beer until, that is, Aaron and “Big” John, who is about six foot seven and 300 pounds, stood up and asked him if he wanted to be put on the next day’s menu – beer was served!

It was the thought of the referee battering a boxer that really got me, though, and I just couldn’t get this strange picture out of my head. Joe came to my club the next day and we told everyone that we won the fight. That battle is still talked about today but there were others … But back to bare-knuckle fighting.

One man who rarely gets a mention but could look after himself was a man named Mark Owens (no, not the Take That bloke!). He knocked “Mad” Frankie Fraser out cold when they were in Parkhurst Prison, when Frank was at his most feared. Mark Owens obviously didn’t give a toss for reputations. I think Mark and Frank became pals in the end. Also, my close friend Chris Lambrianou clumped Ian Brady and a slag called Don Barrett who turned
supergrass
– twice! Chris served up a nonce and a grass – instant
knighthood
surely!

One famous gypsy story took place in 1994. A whole army of Irish travellers in about 150 trailers headed north causing real problems for northern English gypsies who called on their Scottish allies the McPhee family for help. It was like a military invasion and the best of the McPhees travelled to meet the Irish. Both groups produced a fighter. If the McPhees won, the Irish would have to turn back but if the Irish won, the takeover of Scotland would proceed. It was like the Jacobite wars with Bonnie Prince Charlie.

The fight kicked off and the chosen McPhee was on the brink of success when suddenly the Irishman’s pals joined in. No “fair play man” would have been able to handle this lot! Eventually, order was restored and the fight continued but the Scottish McPhee was now so seething with rage. He laid into the Irishman, got hold of his head, bit his nose clean off and in front of both clans… swallowed it!

For some reason, a month or so later the Irish tried to invade again with fresh troops, but the Scottish McPhees were ready for them and the Irish were forced to put up a fighting retreat. The domination of the northern English and their main prize,
domination
of the Scottish gypsies, had failed badly. No such huge “invasion” has happened since. It was like Culloden all over again but this time the Scots won!

One day, in about 1995, I met up with a few of my close mates just outside a huge roundabout, otherwise known as the town of Milton Keynes (never ask for directions in Milton Keynes!). I didn’t know exactly where we were going but I assumed we were off to watch and wager on a “straightener” so I guessed it would be in the open air somewhere. For some reason a “straightener” usually takes place in the open but as we carried on, we turned into an industrial estate, tooted the horn three times and this huge metal warehouse door opened. I knew then that it was going to be an “all in” because they usually take place in built-up areas, mostly inside with the door firmly bolted. Again, it’s just the way it is. There were only about twenty to thirty of us there, not a lot for the size of the place, but “all ins” are top secret as they are illegal.

One fighter was a huge Yorkshire man and the other a much smaller bloke from West London, who was the man we were supporting. The other guy was so pumped up with steroids he looked like he was about to burst and he certainly had more than a minor dose of “roid rage”. As he kicked, punched and head-butted everything metal within sight of his corner, we all tried not to burst out laughing, including his opponent whom I shall call “Mark”.

Now Mark was one of those guys people came unstuck with
especially
when he worked the doors. He was one of the smallest guys on the door but most of the hardest and respected men have been small men. People like Roy Shaw, Freddie Foreman, Frankie Fraser and even the Krays were not big men. Small, sinewy blokes with tons of bottle are by far the worst. 

Somebody kicked a gas cylinder and the two were at each other, hands around each other’s necks and trying to butt each other. Then there was a loud bang on the door. We all scattered and put T-shirts back on the fighters as it could only be the Old Bill.

One of the lads moved the door slightly ajar and in strutted, like the king of the world, Lenny McLean or “the Guv’nor” as he liked to be called. He sat on an old pallet and growled, “Carry on boys.” I assume he had staked money and was popping in to check on his investment. I don’t know who he had his money on but the fact was that Lenny was heavily into the steroid scene himself and used to jack up all the time, I’m afraid; unlike the myth, he was also a brutal bully. My guess was that he was backing “Mr Pumped Up and Roaring”.

Even Lenny’s own cousin and promoter  Frank  Warren did a magazine interview in which he described Lenny as “the very worse type of bully”. He also stated that, “his book was a joke, all those bare-knuckle fights and claiming to be unbeaten in the unlicensed ring. Roy Shaw stopped him early and Cliff Field and Johnny Waldron knocked him out cold twice each. He was also beaten by a guy called Kevin Paddock. How he got away with that book I will never know, I guess people believe what they want to believe.” And that was his own family!

Bob Mee, author of
Bare Fists
wrote: “The marketing of Lenny McLean’s book was undeniably a success as it produced a
bestseller.
However, the startling claim of the first sentence of the
flysheet
– ‘Lenny McLean is the deadliest bare-knuckle fighter Britain has ever seen’ – is laughably wide of the mark.” He added, “McLean was a tough man but had little ability outside rage, borne out of personal misery,” and that McLean “could not box”.

I have spoken to many people who knew or had crossed swords with Lenny McLean, but I have only left in the comments from men who would have said them whether Lenny was alive or dead, if he was standing in front of them or not. I have left out the comments from people who would say, “Lenny me old mate, great to see you!” when confronted by him in person.

A famous incident that about six different people have described to me was when a sixteen-year-old Roy Shaw fan said “Bad luck, Len” after Shaw had stopped him. McLean’s response was to beat the kid senseless with a chair leg! Trust me, this is not the sort of thing you make up. I have seen him bully people with my own eyes and then slobber when a well-known North London “face” has walked in the club with his brother.

Lenny’s trademark on the doors was to spread-eagle a guy’s legs and punch him as hard as he could right up the groin – these were just everyday bank clerks and the like, not hard men. The idea was that the guy would wake up with huge, swollen testicles. This can now be proven, as to milk the cow even further, McLean’s
autobiography,
The Guv’nor,
has been followed up by a book called
The Guv’nor Tapes.
This contains everything that was too much for the original book and in it Lenny talks about this method with glee to Peter Gerrard, his ghost-writer.

Now, back in Milton Keynes Mark and the other lump were at each other once again. Mark suddenly grabbed the guy’s ears, nutted him three or four times, then lifted his knee about a dozen times into the genitals. (The difference, of course, between this and the McLean story is that the fighter had agreed to an “all in” and was not just a plumber’s mate!) As he did this at dazzling speed, Mark sank his teeth into the big guy’s face. There was a ripping sound and a lump of meat that resembled a nose and some other bits were in Mark’s mouth; he then spat them out and forced all his fingernails into the claret-filled hole of goo, blood and snot. He then ripped out yet more flesh and the bone could now easily be seen. Just before the Yorkshireman called “best” (surrender), Lenny McLean dipped his head, turned away like he was about to retch, went a bit green and said, “See ya boys, that’s enough for Lenny for one day.”

I assumed he had lost his money and had got used to the gloved life. Dave Courtney, who worked with Lenny for ages, says in his book
Heroes and Villains
that Lenny couldn’t handle the celebrity when it came and was responsible for being “a bit of a bully”. I have sparred with Roy Shaw a few times and moved around with the likes of Jimmy Stockin but they were taking it VERY easy with me. Lenny just would not have been able to do that: he would have had to knock you all over the ring, gain a victory, roar and basically take a liberty (although he would not have seen it that way).

On one occasion, a legend who was a pro (who never fought unlicensed but was heavily involved) battered Lenny all over the ring and the guy must have been in his sixties by then! He let me use his name here but I won’t, although it doesn’t take much working out. This man, who was a very big heavyweight and would have beaten all the unlicensed fighters in his day, just jabbed Lenny’s head off, with Lenny getting more and more wound up, throwing punches at thin air. The boxer had also sparred with Roy and found him in a far superior class; there was also a lot more mutual respect. This man had been all over the world with Joe Louis and took shit off nobody … including the Kray twins.

Another bare-knuckle fighter in the 1990s was called Joe Savage who claimed he was British bare-knuckle champion. He claimed forty-one wins on the trot and no losses. He was meant to take part in a fight festival in America in 1993. The fighters contesting for a grand cash prize included former heavyweights Tony Tubbs, James “Bonecrusher” Smith who had handed Frank Bruno his first defeat, Tyrell Biggs and Smokin’ Bert Cooper, who replaced Mike Tyson in a fight against the Warrior himself, Evander Holyfield, in 1991. Tyson claimed damaged ribs, while some say he didn’t want the fight because he knew he did not have the heart, mental power or fitness of Evander. Whatever the reason, Burt Cooper was a late replacement.

In the first round of  Holyfield vs Cooper, the unthinkable happened. Cooper caught Evander with a left hook that nearly made the arena crumble and fall to the ground! If Evander was not near the ropes, he would not have got up, nobody could. Evander grabbed the ropes, his legs going in different directions. Tyson must have been kicking himself but the Warrior cleared his head and, God knows how, stopped Cooper in seven explosive rounds. After watching these guys going at each other in sparring, the undefeated bare-knuckle champion of Britain Joe Savage pulled out with a hand injury!

Talking of Tyson, one of his genuine friends (because he has a lot of “yes” men around) is “Big” Joe Egan from Birmingham via Ireland. The tongue-in-cheek title of his book is
The Hardest White Man in the World.
Joe was a very tasty boxer who admires Roy Shaw. I met Joe at a Dave Courtney party (that’s about the only bit I remember!) and I took a photo of Joe and Roy together. Joe, who is a gent and great company, is a real fighting man who can really have a proper row and by that I mean eighty wins by the age of twenty-four, a Golden Gloves Champion who went the distance with Lennox Lewis and beat Bruce Seldon. That’s how good. Joe did a prison sentence and Roy’s book
Pretty Boy
helped get him through it. He is a top bloke. Good on ya, Joe!