My Newcastle friends do make me laugh. I love them to death and they are most funny when they are being serious. It doesn’t matter what you have achieved, if you are from Sunderland, which is ten miles away, they refuse to be impressed. I remember asking my late friend Harry Marsden and John “Mario” Cunningham, founders of the original “Geordie Mafia” and extremely dangerous men in their day, about George Reynolds. I said: “This guy was one of your own. He’s now worth £300 million and has a football club, yacht, helicopter and Christ knows what!”
They both fixed me with a stare that blurted out MISTAKE! MISTAKE!
Harry said: “Tell man, wayya mean one of oors? He’s a dirty fucking Mackem man!” It was a gem. Then he started on about them “calling us monkey-hangers” and other stuff that completely lost me. Harry wound himself up and started to punch things. Then “Mario”, a man who had once escaped from Durham Prison before everything was tightened up after the John McVicar escape, piped up … I never mentioned Sunderland again and I still don’t know what a “Mackem” is.
One of the most famous bare-knuckle fights took place between two Irishmen, Dan Rooney and Ernie McGinley, for the championship of Ireland. It turns up on every unlicensed and bare-knuckle video in circulation. There are masses of spectators all over the place, a swarm of people even sitting on their roofs for a better look. It was a bitter, brutal battle. The crowd actually became uncontrollable and the fight was a draw but it would appear Dan Rooney had the upper hand at that point.
Of the new breed, one of the best bare-knuckle fighters is an East End gypsy called Matt Attrell. A lot of people talk about Matt and it’s all good. It would seem if you want to be known as a man who has fought everyone on the cobbles now, you must beat Matt Attrell, who has never ducked anyone. Danny Woolard tells how he and Matt were put in hospital after a fight in a Chinese restaurant but they took twelve of the enemy to hospital with them; the foes were full of stitches and one had lost his eye!
Danny Woolard is another man who was more than tasty on the cobbles; he has a book out and it’s worth a read. In the Chinese restaurant encounter a meat cleaver was put through Woolard’s head and he carried on fighting. To the credit of the Chinese restaurant, they made no statements (it goes without saying that Woolard and Attrell didn’t). So many people have claimed to have been a close friend of Reg Kray in prison but Danny was, I know that for a fact, plus Reggie gave Danny Woolard a mention in his last book, A Way of Life.
One gypsy cobble-fighter who I had the pleasure of training and preparing for the unlicensed ring was “Gypsy” Joe Smith from West London. Joe was a brutal and fear-free cobble-fighter but just needed to brush up on boxing ring craft. I taught Joe the value of working from behind a solid jab, cutting off the ring and footwork, as well as getting him into prime fitness. We had a full gym at our disposal, as I worked in one at the time, and we would sweat it out every day. Joe’s cousins Billy Smith and Jimmy Stockin also came along to a specialized boxercise circuit I set up and for some sparring. Sometimes I needed to calm them down as these boys loved nothing more than a claret-filled tear up. They were, and still are, extremely hard men. Joe, Jimmy and brother Wally Stockin were also extremely close, as I was, to Joey Pyle Sr and we would always catch up at parties. Myself and a few of the lads also did a fair bit of hair-raising debt-collecting for a very well known East End “face” and other bits and pieces.
With Joe, the first thing to sort out in training, as well as fitness, was controlling his aggression. He was used to the cobbles where fights only last about ten–twenty minutes tops and are often personal so hatred plays a large part. The boxing ring is not like that. You have to keep things under control and relax, not get wound up. You might start as first on the bill and end up last, while your opponent sits in traffic, but you must just let it ride. Getting angry is asking for defeat – why do you think Ali used to wind his opponents up so much?
At one of Joe’s early unlicensed fights, when he hadn’t mastered the mental side and was still thinking like a cobble-fighter, it all blew up in proper gangland fashion. It was like Eddie Richardson and Frankie Fraser at Mr Smith’s club all over again. Now, it seems funny. Actually, even then it seemed funny!
I was in Joe’s corner with his older brother Aaron and younger brother John. As will become clear, I will not give details of venues although I can say that this one took place near London. We were due to be second on the bill. A lot of preparation is needed on fight night; getting your man kitted out, hands bandaged up, keeping him warm on the pads and greasing him up around his eyes and face. Every time our fight slot changed, Joe had to be cooled down again, made to relax and brought back to normal thinking. Then we got a call via the promoter to say our opponent was in traffic, so we would be on fourth. Now, for some reason, nobody liked this guy we were supposed to be fighting. There were twelve fights on the bill so just how long were we going to be kept waiting was anybody’s guess.
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.
The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) Page 49
