It looked as if Shaw’s career as a fighter was over and I had been robbed of my chance to fight him. I knew that even if we did get it on, his reluctance to accept my challenge at his peak had cost me the title of Guv’nor. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that I could have defeated McLean and Shaw, who were, at best, poor boxers. That is not only my opinion of their boxing ability; it is McLean’s manager Frank Warren’s and Shaw’s too. When asked about McLean, Frank Warren replied, ‘Lenny was related to me. He was a big guy, funny and colourful, but he was also a bully and tried to intimidate people and like most bullies couldn’t take it back. He was beaten by average ex-fighters such as Cliff Fields, and definitely would not have made it as a pro.’ When asked about taking on professional boxers, Shaw is quoted in Jon Hotten’s book as saying he and McLean ‘ain’t in their class’. If he knew that when he spoke to Hotten in 1998, he must have known it when I challenged him in 1981. Shaw knew he was coming to the end of his money-making days in the ring, so it was important he suffered no more humiliating defeats like the one handed out by his arch-rival McLean. Nobody was going to pay good money to watch a guaranteed loser, so I reckoned that Shaw would try to win future contests by any means available.
Peter Koster told me that there was a possibility of arranging a lucrative fight with a guy named Cliff Fields. I had heard a lot about Fields. Unlike McLean and Shaw, Fields was an ex-professional boxer rather than a bar-room brawler. He was a big, strong, powerful puncher who was known during his boxing career as the ‘Iron Man’. He had boxed as a heavyweight against the likes of Richard Dunn, Billy Aird, Jack Cotes and Dick Reeves. He’d had fifteen professional fights, of which he’d won eleven and lost just four. Fields had fought McLean twice in unlicensed bouts and defeated him both times – a fact McLean forgot to mention in his autobiography
The Guv’nor
. Shaw had refused to even get in the ring with him. ‘I wouldn’t fight him,’ he is reported as saying, ‘because I knew he would have mullered me.’
It is beyond doubt that those in the unlicensed fight game were well below par when put in front of traditional experienced boxers. In their autobiographies, written years after the event, they boast about being the best but in private they know they are talking nonsense. I was a powerful heavyweight boxer, so I had no fear of Fields, who had lost against Billy Aird, whom I too had fought. I’d given quite a good account of myself but, as I’ve said, lost after being disqualified for head-butting. No disrespect to Cliff Fields, but it’s fair to say that when he took up unlicensed fighting and was beating the best fighters it could offer, he was way past his prime. I felt sure that I could and would defeat him.
It was agreed that all concerned would meet in a pub at Cockfosters, north London. When Peter Koster and I arrived, we were invited to sit around a table with Fields and his manager. Fields had dark hair, narrow eyes and a typical boxer’s nose that had been flattened across his face. I stared straight at him throughout the meeting, but he wouldn’t look at me. He came across as a real Neanderthal man, because he wouldn’t speak or even acknowledge people who were talking to him. When we left the meeting, I told Peter that I had already beaten Fields. ‘He wouldn’t look me in the eye,’ I said. ‘His bottle has gone before we have even put the gloves on.’
I didn’t know it at the time, but Fields was an extremely shy reserved guy who never looked anybody in the eye or made conversation. In fact he was such a private person, nobody knew anything about him: where he worked, lived or even if he was married or had children. For reasons unknown to me the fight never did go ahead, despite numerous attempts by Peter to arrange it. ‘We will get back to you,’ Peter was told, but, like Shaw’s camp, they never did. Many years later Cliff Fields was set upon by a gang of travellers and his eyesight was severely impaired. He was forced to retire from boxing and, like so many fighters before him and since, he sadly sought solace in the bottle.
I wasn’t happy working at Ripples nightclub. It wasn’t the guys I worked with or the job I was doing; I was fed up of spending hours in traffic driving to and from the West End and then having the additional burden of finding an outrageously overpriced parking space. Feeding the meter every night was more expensive than feeding three kids. The logistics of commuting were certainly more stressful than bouncing drunks around and out of nightclubs.
My six months in exile from the Room at the Top had ended, so I asked Peter if it would be OK for me to return. Mr Bednash, still quite rightly concerned about the police’s reactions to whom he employed, said I could return so long as I shaved my distinctive beard off. It seemed a small price to pay, so I agreed but left myself with a Mexican-style moustache.
The first night I walked back into the club, I was beckoned to the bar by two men in suits. ‘Police, Mr Martindale,’ they said. ‘You can shave what you want off, but you can’t hide those bloody big shoulders. You are extremely fortunate that the Portuguese gentleman didn’t press charges. Let’s keep it low-key in the future, eh?’
They were obviously not going to arrest me, so I replied ‘OK’ and walked away to prevent any further discussion. My card had been marked; I knew that things were never going to be quite the same at the club. Out of respect for Mr Bednash and a desire to keep my liberty, I tended to treat miscreants more lightly, and trivial misdemeanours were ignored. I was trying to be the gentle guy that pleased the police and the owner, but the gentle guy was losing the respect of the wannabe villains, who were getting away with taking liberties. Doing my job half-heartedly wasn’t me – I was fooling myself – so I started looking for alternative employment.
I was approached by a man who said that he would like me to become the security manager at a new club in Harrow Weald called the Middlesex and Herts Country Club. The man was concerned that heavy criminal firms and faces would frequent the venue and scare away the more refined clientele he was hoping to attract. I was looking for a new job that didn’t involve appeasing arseholes, a torturous journey to get there or the need to take a bank loan out for parking fees, so I agreed to start work on a trial basis.
The Middlesex and Herts Country Club was a vast complex. When you entered the grounds via a large set of gates, you followed a long winding road that went over a kidney-shaped swimming pool and ended at a very grand glass-fronted reception. The club had squash, badminton and tennis courts, a flying club and golf and equestrian facilities. In the garden bar George the pianist would play requests on a huge white grand piano. To ensure the ambience was just so, George would always be dressed in a white tuxedo, white top hat and a white pair of gloves. There was also a restaurant, cocktail bar, balcony bar, buffet bar and discotheque.
On the opening night I worked on my own, which is not the most sensible thing to do if you’re a nightclub bouncer. Fortunately the customers were, in the main, celebrities, their fans, or guests and friends of the owners and so the night passed off without incident. However, I made it clear to my employers that several additional door staff would have to be employed if they wanted to keep good order on the premises. The following night a door team that couldn’t have fought boredom, let alone agitated punters if the going got rough, met me. I sacked half of them and brought men in that I knew and could rely upon.
I hadn’t been working at the club long when a coachload of rugby players decided to visit. After knocking back large quantities of alcohol, they began to scrum down on the dance floor. I went over to them and explained that they would have to calm down or leave. They apologised for their behaviour, but as soon as I turned my back they all started to laugh and got back into a scrum. I told a doorman to watch my back because I was going to knock the biggest guy in the rugby party out. ‘You’ve got to go,’ I said, looking up at a mountain of a man, ‘and take your mates with you.’
‘Do you want to fight me, then?’ the giant said, laughing.
‘OK,’ I replied before driving my right fist into his chin.
I dragged him off the dance floor and into the reception area, where I kicked him in the head a few times. Nigel the manager was shouting ‘Not in here, not in here!’ but I wasn’t listening. When I had finished beating the man, there was blood everywhere. The man’s friends came into the reception area, picked him up and carried him outside. A taxi driver who had just pulled up refused to let them get into his vehicle because of the blood, so they began shouting abuse and kicking his car.
I went outside to assist the driver. The rugby players saw me coming and ran to the far end of the car park. Eventually two vehicles arrived to pick them up and they departed, hurling abuse and threats out of the windows. The manager warned me about my future conduct and I knew then that I wouldn’t be leaving his employment with a gold watch for a lifetime of service.
Everybody in London had heard of Mickey Green, or the Pimpernel, as he was known. Throughout the 1950s and 1960s in north London he was a ‘face’ amongst the criminal fraternity. Faces were feared ruthless men who earned their wealth committing robberies, long-firm frauds or collecting protection money. Brandishing a sawn-off shotgun to fund a spell in sawn-off jeans on a Spanish beach was the mindset. In 1970 Green’s luck ran out when he was sentenced to 18 years’ imprisonment for his part in a robbery at Barclays Bank in Ilford, Essex. On 26 March 1979 he was released from prison, having served just half of his sentence.
Green had been telling the landlord of his local pub that he had heard a good night out was to be had at the Middlesex and Herts Country Club. ‘I think I will take the missus and a few of the boys down there,’ he said. Unbeknown to Green, the landlord was acquainted with the manager of the club, and he telephoned to warn him of Green’s intended visit. ‘You will regret letting him in,’ the landlord advised. ‘He will flood the place with villains and scare all your punters away. If he doesn’t, his missus will. She is the widow of Jack “The Hat” McVitie, the geezer that the Kray brothers murdered.’
The Krays and their associates had never been very welcome in north London, so, understandably, visions of gang warfare taking place in the club flashed through the manager’s mind. ‘If a guy called Mickey Green comes here, Lew, don’t let him in,’ the manager said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he whispered, ‘And if he asks to speak to the manager, say that I have gone out.’
That night Mickey Green and his entourage of flat-nosed friends and glamorous girls walked into the club. ‘Hello, boys,’ he said. ‘Where do I pay?’
‘Unfortunately you don’t,’ I replied. ‘It’s a members-only club, and you’re not a member.’
Green glared at me. ‘So how much do you want for a membership then, mate?’
I told Green that I wasn’t his mate, memberships were not on sale and even if they were he couldn’t have one because the management didn’t want him in there.
‘Is that fucking so?’ Green said. ‘Is the manager about?’
I told him that he wasn’t and asked him to leave. For a moment Green hesitated, but then he walked out of the door without saying another word. The following evening the manager told me that Green had been in touch with him. He said I was to allow him and his friends into the club in future as they now had memberships. I had nothing against Green or his friends, but I was outraged that after telling them they couldn’t come in I now had to eat humble pie and welcome them with open arms. ‘They will think I’m some sort of fucking mug!’ I shouted at the manager. ‘They’re hardly going to take any notice of me in the future, are they?’ The manager, clearly embarrassed, didn’t answer and walked away.
They arrived mob-handed that night: Green, about a dozen heavies and their female partners. ‘Hello, boys,’ Green said, smiling, as he walked through the door. ‘I’ve cleared that little misunderstanding with your boss.’
I knew Green was trying to wind me up, but I decided to bide my time. ‘Keep it sweet, boys,’ I replied. ‘I throw members out who misbehave too.’
After the champagne began to flow, two of their group began to argue amongst themselves. A half-hearted punch was thrown, and their friends pulled them apart. I had been waiting for something like this to happen all evening. It had been a mistake to let them in. I went over and said to Green that if his friends continued to fuck about, I’d throw him and them out. Green stepped towards me and sneered, ‘I don’t think you realise what you’re up against. There are thirteen of us.’
I told him that I didn’t give a fuck how many people there were, it was him who was doing the underestimating. Green’s friends picked up their glasses and looked at him, waiting for the signal to attack. I stood my ground, staring at each of them in turn. ‘If you want it, you can fucking have it, boys,’ I said, ‘but more than one of you will come with me.’
Green hesitated and then replied, ‘You’d die for this place, wouldn’t you?’ I told him I wouldn’t, but I would die for my self-respect. What happened next would be up to Green and his friends. I’d had my say and stood my ground; it was their move. ‘Shall we drink up and go then, lads?’ Green said to his friends. They looked at me, muttered, cursed, drank their drinks and left.
Shortly afterwards I read that Green had gone on the run as he was wanted in connection with a multi-million-pound VAT fraud that involved smuggling gold into the UK. Green later surfaced in Spain, where he set up a drug-trafficking cartel with one of my former friends, Great Train Robber Charlie Wilson. Since then Green has become one of Europe’s most hunted criminals. He has been wanted in Holland, France, Spain, Ireland, Belgium and Britain and is on the target list of every customs and police force in Europe, South America and the United States. (Green was living in singer Rod Stewart’s former Beverly Hills home when FBI agents arrested him as he lounged by the pool, but after being interviewed he was released without charge.) Today Green lives in a luxury villa in Marbella, Spain. Supergrass Michael Michael, who disappeared off the face of the earth into the witness-protection programme after betraying colleagues in a drug-smuggling gang, once owned the property. After Michael fled, Green had simply moved into the villa and declared it as his own. ‘Well that bastard is hardly likely to come back and ask me to leave, is he?’ Green reportedly told a neighbour. If you have front, I suppose you can get away with anything. Unless, of course, you encounter somebody with more front than yourself.