How Lenny McLean became the hardest man in Britain

East End hard-man Lenny McLean with his beloved dogs

There’s some footage towards the beginning of The Guv’nor, Paul Van Carter’s brutal yet measured documentary about Lenny McLean, which just about sums up the temperament of the famed East End hard-man.

In the clip, from 1986, McLean patiently bounces up and down in a boxing ring, looking slightly like a silverback gorilla about to be released into the wild, preparing to take on an undefeated fighter named Brian ‘Mad Gypsy’ Bradshaw in an unlicensed bout.

From the grainy video alone it is difficult to tell whether Bradshaw is a member of the traveller community, but it takes just a few seconds for the other half of his nickname to prove emphatically correct.

Striding forward to touch gloves with McLean in order to start the fight, Bradshaw – long before a bell has tolled – head-butts his opponent square on the chin.

In the course of human history, few decisions have proven less wise, and fewer still so instantly regretted. To a backdrop of gasps, McLean recoils, gently touching a glove to his mouth to check for blood, before unleashing utter mayhem.

Bradshaw is floored by the first punch, a huge right hook, before McLean boots him while he’s down, punches him a dozen more times, madly kicks him, picks him up a bit, punches him a lot more again, then repeatedly stamps on his head until four exceptionally plucky spectators intervene, restraining the victor just about long enough for the fight to be called to a halt.

It’s terrifying, but to many people, that was just the Guv’nor. The hardest man in Britain.

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Lenny McLean ruled over the East End for decades

Defining Lenny McLean, who died in 1998, beyond calling him ‘hard’ is no easy task. Consult his online biography, for instance, and you’ll be met with the following list of pursuits – the like of which you’ll be pressed to match in 2016, no matter how long you spend on LinkedIn:

“A bare-knuckle fighter, bouncer, criminal and prisoner, author, businessman, bodyguard, enforcer, weightlifter, television presenter and actor.”

With The Guv’nor, a feature documentary that shows in cinemas tonight and sees release on DVD from Monday, Van Carter attempts to make some sense of that extraordinary life. To do so he collaborated with Jamie McLean, Lenny’s only son, who fronts the documentary, turning the film into not only an examination of its subject, but its presenter too.

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Jamie McLean, Lenny’s only son

The Guv’nor follows Jamie, 45, around the now heavily gentrified areas of east London where McLean grew up and spent most of his days, eventually becoming the most famous – and feared – man around. Through interviews with McLean’s old friends and family, Jamie builds a complex portrait of his father and discovers, in unflinching detail, how he became one of the most notorious men in London.

“It was an emotional thing to do, talking about my dad, especially as he isn’t here anymore,” Jamie says. “We got there in the end, but even going around those parts of London, bumping into people who had stories about him and remembered him as a kid, was very hard for me.”

Born into a working class family in Hoxton in 1949, Lenny McLean’s father died when he was six, leaving him to be raised by his mother, Rose, and later a stepfather, Jim Irwin. A local conman, Irwin physically abused McLean and his siblings (who refuse to speak on camera in the documentary) throughout his childhood, unleashing regular beatings until the children’s great-uncle, a gangster named Jimmy Spink, stepped in to deal with Irwin in a predictably forthright manner.

Consumed with rage, Lenny became a brawler as he grew older (and bigger, reaching 6’3” and over 20st at his peak), before mixing with criminals – at one point associating with the Kray twins – and serving a prison sentence for petty crimes.

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A 17-year-old Lenny in 1966

It didn’t take long for Lenny to make a name for himself as the toughest street fighter around, earning the nickname ‘Ten Men Len’ on account of it taking ten men to take him down. Turning to bare-knuckle and unlicensed boxing to earn money (a license was never possible for him, thanks to his criminal convictions), regularly knocking out opponents far larger than him.

Despite that local environment, Jamie – an honest and extremely likeable frontman for The Guv’nor, who admits to his own history of brushes with the law for violence – says the abuse Lenny suffered as a child ignited a rage his father was rarely able to escape from.

“My dad wasn’t a born fighter. He was uneducated and a product of his upbringing, traumatised by what he’d been through, and probably had mental health problems as a result of all that. Fighting was all he knew.”

In particular, through the course of the film Van Carter and Jamie discovered Lenny likely suffered from OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) as a direct result of his upbringing.

“The violence was a way of managing and concealing the OCD that directly sprung from abuse,” Van Carter, 40, says. “He almost satisfied the chaos of that psychological disorder through fighting, hiding any vulnerabilities he might have felt mentally.”

In the documentary, Jamie tells innumerable tales of his father’s extreme violence, never sugar-coating or seeking to present Lenny as less aggressive than his reputation. For instance, one fight outside a pub in Hoxton, started when a local asked to see him outside, ended with Lenny ripping the man’s windpipe out with his teeth.

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Lenny McLean with the actors Craig Fairbrass and Frank Harper

As Lenny McLean grew older, he began using his considerable reputation to guard doors at nightclubs across London, including Camden Palace and the Hippodrome in Leicester Square, becoming a de facto leader for bouncers in the capital. In this period he was shot, accused of murder (later acquitted) and enjoyed another stint behind bars.

In his work, Jamie admits, it was all violence. As a father, though, Lenny was nothing but a big softie.

“He was gentle and funny to us and his friends, never raising a finger to my sister and me,” Jamie says. “What my dad did, in work and on the streets, was bully bullies. Unprovoked violence only ever came as a vigilante, clattering blokes on the estate who’d hit their wives or kids, sometimes even working with the police to sort out problems they couldn’t get near. People respected him in the area and still do; that was the old code of honour.”

Jamie McLean with his parents, Lenny and Val, at a family Christmas

That safety didn’t allow Jamie to act as he liked as a kid, however. He may have had the hardest dad in town, but it came at a cost.

“We knew the consequences if we told him that we’d had a problem or someone had done something to us. Telling him someone had hit us would have resulted not just in violent revenge, but extreme violence, so we had to keep quiet,” he says, before admitting there was one perk: “Me and my mates never queued for a club anywhere in London.”

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McLean strikes a pose at a caravan park

After years of fighting, the late 1990s brought a remarkable change in Lenny’s life. Giving up violence and moving to Kent, he instead became something of a creative, writing a best-selling autobiography, also called The Guv’nor, and turning to acting, most famously in the TV series The Knock and as Barry the Baptist in Guy Ritchie’s 1998 gangster film Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.

“That’s what he always wanted to do. He was a good fighter, especially on the streets, but his lasting legacy was acting. When he arrived on the set of Lock Stock, someone asked him what drama school he attended. Without missing a beat, Len told him ‘I’ve been shot twice, stabbed 100 times and had 10,000 bar-room brawls – is that enough drama for you?’

“Guy Ritchie said he was a natural, with perfect timing. If he was around today he would’ve been a really accomplished British character actor, maybe in Game of Thrones or something. He’d probably have tried Shakespeare for all we know…”

As it is, we’ll never know what the future had in store. During filming on Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, he complained of flu symptoms that later turned out to be lung cancer, and died that July, aged 49. When Lock Stock was released a few weeks later, Ritchie dedicated it to Lenny.

“You don’t get Guv’nors like my dad any more,” Jamie says, wistfully. “He was the last of a dying breed. These days kids are so trivial. You can have a gun pulled on you in a club just for looking at someone, or being in the wrong postcode. And then everything’s on camera anyway. It’s all changed, and had started to even by the time he died.”

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The McLean family portrait in the late 90s

In addition to the documentary, Lenny’s story will return to the big screen next year with My Name Is Lenny, a biopic produced by Van Carter (who also co-wrote the screenplay) and Jamie, and starring Mad Max actor Josh Hellman in the titular role, alongside Sir John Hurt, and MMA fighter Michael Bisping in support.

Almost 17 years after his father’s death, both films are intended to add some depth to the fearsome character of Lenny McLean. Van Carter and Jamie admit they’re passion projects, but hold high hopes for the audience reaction.

“My dad was a working class kid in the East End with no positive role models, an abusive upbringing and OCD, and his journey was to fight and fight and fight to get away from that,” Jamie says. “In the end he did steer his life in a positive direction and a proper profession. It’s not rags to riches, we know that, but he got through the darkness and made something of himself. Even today, that’s inspiring for people.”



If you ask someone with no interest in combat sports to name two boxers, there’s a good chance that they will name Muhammad Ali and Mike Tyson. They are the two great heavyweights who are so easy to recall and they are often painted as polar opposites.

At the height of his popularity Ali was probably the most recognizable person on the planet. You could take his photograph to parts of Africa and children there would know him before they recognized the president of the United States of America. His exile from boxing through three years of his physical prime for his refusal to be drafted to the US military, and his support of the Nation of Islam made Ali one of the most divisive figures of his generation and served to see him transcend his sport in a way that no other athlete has to this day. Many remember him for his comeback and his out-thinking of the seemingly unbeatable George Foreman, though he is just as easily remembered for not knowing when to call it quits and his brutal shellacking at the hands of Larry Holmes.

Mike Tyson is remembered primarily as a villain. Or rather as a lost cause and wasted potential. The greatest fighter who ever lived, mislead after the loss of his father figure. Under the charge of Cus D’amato and Kevin Rooney, Tyson won the world heavyweight title at the age of 20 by knocking out almost everyone in his path. Then it all fell apart. Convicted of rape, Tyson was sent to prison and remained out of the ring from June of 1991 until August of 1995. When he returned he wasn’t the Tyson of old, he was just a flat footed brawler. The fights became grinding slogs and when he met the best of the best in Evander Holyfield and Lennox Lewis, he was convincingly bested.

There’s more to both men’s stories. It would be easy to turn Ali heel by recounting his misuse of his stature in the black community to turn it against Joe Frazier. It would be equally easy to show Tyson in a positive light. But simplifying a man into print will compress him into a one-dimensional cliché. What was captivating about each was their approach to the game of fisticuffs—each so unique that it could draw in the most casual of observers. Let us examine these styles and play with that most important of hypothetical match ups—Muhammad Ali versus Mike Tyson.

Living and Dying By the Jab

Classical boxing is lead by the jab. In fact the terms ‘jab’ and ‘lead’ are often used interchangeably. As a 5’10” heavyweight, Tyson was always going to be at a disadvantage in a straight up jab-off. Working with Cus D’amato, who trained fighters in “elusive aggression”, Tyson was built around drawing the jab and getting past it. The jab that is expected and prepared for is easily countered—and through aggression, paired with constant, disciplined head movement, Tyson was able to draw panicked jabs and counter them.

Due to his extensive use of hooks and uppercuts rather than the traditional straight blows, Tyson is often remembered as an infighter. The truth is that Tyson’s best punches connected on the way in. He wasn’t the kind to press into his opponent’s chest and chop away with grinding, short blows to the body. The opponent jabbed, it flew over one of Tyson’s shoulders, and he immediately retaliated. It could be a left hook, it could be a right across the top of the jab, it was the timing and the movement of Tyson that made it more than the power of the blow.

The more Tyson’s opponents became concerned about not letting him close, the more they’d pump the jab. And the more often they pumped the jab, in hopes of a solid connection to keep him away, the more openings they exposed for Tyson to score through.

But the fact that Tyson was Tyson didn’t undermine the principles of boxing. He was still a short heavyweight, and the jab was still a problem. He was just exceptionally well trained and disciplined in getting around it and using his opponent’s jabs to his advantage. In the worst performances of his career, when Tyson tired and couldn’t maintain the constant head movement through the rounds, Tyson found himself on the end of the jab and unable to get inside.

Tyson lived and died by his opponent’s jab, and his ability to manipulate and draw it through intimidation and crowding.

Cassius Clay to Muhammad Ali

Young Cassius Clay meanwhile, as a 6’3″ heavyweight, with a seventy-eight inch reach (seven inches on Tyson’s) recognized the jab as his key weapon from day one. He didn’t throw out the piston-like jab that had been the fashion though. He wasn’t Liston or Foreman, driving a railway spike through his opponent’s head. No, Muhammad Ali’s jab was more sinister: flicked out with his hand loose inside his glove. He targeted the eyes like no-one else in the game and made a habit of cutting his opponents in his early career. Poor Henry Cooper’s face seemed to be coming apart at the seams when Clay was done with him.

Ali’s best power punch was always the right hand counter as his opponent retracted their jab. He called it the Anchor Punch when it became the focal point of his controversial second fight with Liston (which Liston likely threw), but it had been winning Ali fights for years. He laid out Zara Foley with the same blow, and Ali’s sparring partner Jimmy Ellis made his mark timing the same counter through the heavyweight tournament to decide a champion during Ali’s exile from boxing.

When Ali returned from his three years away from the ring, he looked shoddy. He couldn’t coast on his speed against the grinding journeymen, and against the best fighters with the best coaches, he found his flaws being exposed to the world. The change in Ali was noticeable. He went to the clinch more and he would conserve his strength. There would be brief periods of activity from Ali, and then periods where he would deny his opponent activity through the clinch.

Where there was a point where one could clearly say “that’s complete Tyson”, there is no such point for Ali. When his speed and footwork were there, his ability to tie opponents up and wrestle with them were not. Ali’s shortcomings on his return forced him to grow and adapt in order to stay relevant, and in that we saw him become a more complete scientific boxer. Had he come back to the ring with the speed and dazzle of his youth, or had success with the same he had used back then, we might not have seen him grow to out-think George Foreman or take many of the biggest victories of his career.

The Dip and the Bob

One of Ali’s greatest bad habits was punching down on his man. His success in spite of this caused the habit to become even more ingrained. Go back to Ali’s bout with the Old Mongoose, Archie Moore (who had trained Ali for a while before a falling out over doing chores at camp). Moore was well past his best and relied on his unorthodox cross guard and the habit of heavyweights and light heavyweights to get tired after a few rounds of good punching at him. They’d stand still in front of him after hitting his guard and eventually he’d crack them with a good counter. Archie could hit too, he holds the most professional knockouts of anyone in ring history and in fact lectured a young Cassius Clay of the importance of developing punch for when his feet eventually slowed down, but Clay didn’t want to hear it.

Ali punched down on Moore, and on Joe Frazier in their three fights, relying on his length and speed to pull him out of the way when they returned. The danger of punching down at an opponent is, of course, that you are standing close enough to hit, with your hands down by your waist. Against Frazier, this resulted in plenty of moments like this:

Here an already aged Cus D’amato demonstrates the same principle in discussing a prospective match up with Joe Frazier with a young Ali. Ali’s dropping his hands for the uppercut cost him in the bout with Frazier exactly as D’amato predicted it would:

The reason Ali could do this was partly his reach advantage, but partly because both Frazier and Moore bent over at the waist to avoid punches. This worked well for them the majority of the time, but it also meant that they had to come out of the stoop to counter. You can’t advance across the ring with any rapidity while doubled over. What you will notice over and over in the Frazier is constantly advancing, except when he is bending to avoid punches.

When Ali hit the ropes, or slowed down, that was when Frazier cracked him with the left hook in answer to Ali punching down on him while he bobbed. Frazier was at a mechanical disadvantage in his dip, at a tremendous reach disadvantage, and he was still able to get in good blows on Ali when the latter committed the sin of punching down on him. One of the really interesting points of the Tyson – Ali match up is that Tyson’s vertical movement was not like Frazier’s at all.

Tyson would bend forwards at the waist when appropriate, but he would more often utilize a bending at the waist to the side, or rather a deep slip. With these deep slips he could get to the side of straight punches and underneath hooks. They aren’t a particularly natural maneuver and the stories go that Tyson used to practice them up and down the gym while holding a barbell plate.

Much more of Tyson’s movement was performed by bending at the legs and this is highlighted in this nice clip of him showboating:

Where Joe Frazier would bend straight forwards almost every time with his forearms in front of his face, and this made him very susceptible to the best uppercutters, Tyson kept his eyes up, his back straight, and had control over his body even while deep in a crouch or dip.

The main point was that Tyson was more varied in his evasions than Frazier, but more important he could advance upon his target much faster while he was evading punches—where Frazier had to come almost to a dead halt while he bent over at the waist to avoid the blows.

Of course, Ali had beaten Floyd Patterson, something of a prototypical Tyson, but Patterson had been past his best days and was never as active in his head movement as Tyson. In fact, in their second bout Patterson was troubled by back spasms, which raises interesting questions about the longevity of the D’amato style.

On the Inside

While Tyson was not the infighter that Frazier was, he appreciated the value of aim over power. When Muhammad Ali tired George Foreman out along the ropes in Zaire, he genuinely seemed to think he had found a new way to fight all of his bouts. When he went to the ropes shortly afterwards in his third match with Joe Frazier, he took a fearful beating.

Where Foreman swung wild against Ali’s forearms and lost his temper, Frazier drove his head into Ali’s chest, where Ali couldn’t hit it, and started digging shorter punches inside of the elbow. When the elbow came in, he’d go around behind it. When the head came down, he’d uppercut. When he got the chance to step to an angle and throw the left hook through the center of Ali’s guard like it was a straight punch, he’d take it. And if Ali punched back he’d hook. That’s the difference between punching along the ropes and good infighting—good infighting aims to force the opponent to make adjustments, and then accommodates for those adjustments. It’s tiring to keep up with good infighting, swinging along the ropes only tires the man that’s doing the swinging.

Tyson’s best close range set up was that right handed lever punch. The double up of right hook to the ribs or kidney, followed by the same hand coming immediately up the middle in an uppercut. This scored Tyson a great many knockdowns and even if it failed, it served to keep the opponent upright so that the body shots would continue connecting on a nicely stretched out abdomen.

Tyson’s best method along the ropes was angling off to his left side, into a southpaw stance. Through his best days, this almost always spelled trouble for his opponents as the angle of his right hand changed and it was able to hook or uppercut right up the middle through their guard. Out in the center, along the ropes, anywhere he could hit this slight shift, he would.

But the x-factor through the whole Ali—Tyson match up is the clinch. Ali, like Jack Johnson, used the clinch to separate the men from the boys. Ali loved to cup the back of the head with one hand to bend the opponent forwards, and then use his other hand to cup their arm at the biceps. If he kept the elbow of the hand on the opponent’s neck close, he could effectively muffle or stop all of their blows, but keep the tie up lose enough that most referees would encourage the clinched man to keep working. It was Ali’s greatest trick and he knew it.

Norman Mailer recounted in The Fight going to see Ali in training ahead of the bout in Zaire, and how most of Ali’s sparring sessions in those days were simply him taking young, promising heavyweights like Larry Holmes to the ropes and tying them up. Being Mailer it’s filled with metaphor and Ali somehow becomes a butcher selecting punches like cuts of meat, but it’s a fascinating insight nonetheless.

Ali ruined Joe Frazier in their second fight as Frazier couldn’t get anything off inside this clinch. When a referee was chosen in the third fight to specifically prohibit this, the bout was a grueling back and forth war. And why is all of this interesting? Because an aged Larry Holmes only lasted four rounds with Tyson, but each time he tied Tyson up in this manner, the young banger looked completely ineffectual. Tyson was notably upset by this and even complained to Kevin Rooney between rounds that Holmes was holding him.

The fun thing about a hypothetical fight is that you can never be proved wrong in your pick, but you can remain absolutely adamant that anyone who picks the other guy is a mug. The standard is “prime Ali versus prime Tyson” and I think that is a bout which Tyson could take. “Prime” meaning athletic prime, that is. Young, fast handed, fast footed Ali, dancing and jabbing erratically and hoping he never gets punished for it.

The fight I’d much rather see is Ali of the second and third Frazier fights. The one who would hold for a round, jab for a round. The one who would drag Tyson into the later rounds where he always had trouble with his breathing and with maintaining his head movement. Even with those two fighters, the camps they went through and the strategies they came in with would change the course of the bout. But that is what keeps the match up so important to the boxing fan—the fact that no matter what someone says Ali or Tyson would do, someone else can give you an example of when they did the exact opposite.

Of course, the real interesting question is how they would cope with Joe Louis…



John Sullivan, the illegal champion of the boxing world


America’s last-ever bare-knuckle prizefight took place in Richburg, Mississippi, on July 8, 1889. In the battle between undefeated champions, John L. Sullivan beat Jake Kilrain after 75 rounds. Bat Masterson served as the official timekeeper.

Richburg, MS, July 8, 1889: The boxing match of the century—after being banned in states all across the South– finally took place yesterday morning, in a secret, secluded field just north of here, as the greatest heavyweight boxer of our time, John Sullivan, knocked out one of the toughest bar room brawlers ever, Big Jake Kilrain, in the 75th grueling, bloody round. This will likely be the last heavy weight championship bare knuckle fight in these United States fought under London Prize Ring rules.

The events leading up to this controversial fight were almost as exciting as the fight itself. We’ve known, of course, the fight was going to happen for weeks, now.  We just didn’t know exactly where or exactly when.

Prize fighting has been outlawed in Mississippi for a number of years.  But, Charley Rich, the namesake of Richburg, and the owner of the field where the fight took place and 10,000 acres around it, would have none of that. Rich was going to have this fight, lawful or not. He belligerently dared anyone to try and stop him.

Mississippi Governor Robert Lowery tried to do just that. The governor issued a specific proclamation, last week, forbidding the fight. Rich, obviously, paid the proclamation no mind.

As of fight time, at 10:30, yesterday morning, the temperature was 106 degrees.  Since the fight was outside, there were hastily constructed benches from rough hewn pine, oozing hot resin. Three thousand seething souls, who had boarded special trains in New Orleans bound for the undisclosed fight location, early yesterday, sat in that blazing sun for the entire 75 rounds.

Under bare knuckle boxing rules, a round of fighting lasted until a fighter is knocked down  or thrown down; wrestling techniques are permitted in bare knuckle contests.

In the 35th round, Kilrain had a broken nose, split lips, and one eye swollen shut.  Sullivan had a black eye, his left ear was bleeding, and both hands were swollen twice the normal size.  The fight wasn’t even half over.  Kilrain consumed a quart of whiskey during the fight.  Sullivan, uncharacteristically, drank tea.

The time referee in this fight was Bat Masterson, the legendary law man and gunfighter, who cleaned up Dodge City, Kansas. He timed it at 2 hours, 18 minutes.  In the end, the swashbuckling “John L.” remains the bare knuckle heavy weight champion of the world.

John L. Sullivan and Jake Kilrain


This fight was the last bare knuckle boxing championship fight in U.S. history. Kilrain retired from boxing in 1899, working at various jobs the rest of his life. He died in 1937, a night watchman in a Boston suburb. Sullivan retired from boxing in 1905. Always a drinker, he became a temperance advocate until he died in 1918, from alcohol diseases he contracted early in his life. Big Jake Kilrain was an usher at his funeral.

The only remnant that this legendary fight ever took place is a small permanent marker along U.S. Highway 11, just north of Richburg.

That Makes Him Harder Then a Coffin Nail

[Unlicensed Boxing] What Happens When You Headbutt A Maniac


Lenny McLean was one of the deadliest bare-knuckle fighters Britain has ever seen. He had dear, powerful friends, but he also had terrible enemies. So much so that he has two bullet wounds in his back — each from a different attack. He has also been stabbed repeatedly — always from behind. Lenny, however, is also a warm, grizzly bear of a man, whose main weakness is an overwhelming desire to put the welfare of his mates ahead of his own well-being. #beast.

Being raised by an abusive step-father, Lenny had an incredibly difficult upbringing. At the age of 10, he’d had his jaw broken twice and many broken bones. At the age of 15, he was fired from his first job after beating up the foreman.

Lenny is a man who has years of abuse bottled up, that he would one day unleash on his opponents.

This is what happens when instead of touching gloves, you headbutt him:

Boxing Life

When Frank Warren formed the National Boxing Council in the 1970s, it allowed the toughest underground fighters in Britain to compete legally. McLean, unable to become a licensed boxer due to his violent reputation and criminal record, entered the world of unlicensed boxing (which, though legal, was not sanctioned by the British Boxing Board of Control), and he quickly became one of its brightest stars. His most famous bout was against James ‘Foreman’ Soreman. The notorious Essex fighter had earned a name for himself by flattening skulls with his forehead. The fight went down to the final round, where Soreman illegally headbutted Mclean and was subsequently disqualified.

McLean, who in his prime was six feet two inches (188 cm) tall and weighed over twenty stone (127 kg), boasted that he could beat anybody, in either a legitimate match or in an unlicensed match with or without gloves, and reputedly sent out challenges to many of the famous boxers of the day, includingMuhammad Ali and Mr. T, though neither contest materialised. He was challenged by the king of the gypsies Bartley Gorman to see who was the hardest unlicensed fighter in the united kingdom but he refused leading to many to believe Bartly to be the better fighter.

McLean had a brutal trilogy of unlicensed matches with arch-rival Roy “Pretty Boy” Shaw, a former patient of Broadmoor Hospital. McLean lost to Shaw once via verbal submission, which McLean justified by claiming his gloves had been tampered with, thus reducing their maneuverability. McLean beat Shaw in a rematch with a dramatic first-round knockout in which Shaw was knocked out of the ring. In their final bout, McLean ended the feud with a brutal first-round knockout at the Rainbow Theatre in Finsbury Park, London in September 1978.

However, McLean was not invincible nor a professional athlete and large portions of his career cannot be verified. He was allegedly twice knocked out by Johnny “Big Bad” Waldron during the early days of his boxing career, both times in the first round. He was also knocked out in the first round by George Langley, twice stopped in matches against Cliff Field, and beaten on points by Kevin Paddock (none of which are mentioned in McLean’s autobiography), although McLean always maintained that he had never lost a fight “on the cobbles” or outside the ring.

Despite these defeats, McLean claims to have competed in almost four thousand fights over three decades, and winning a very large majority of these fights. This led many to accept McLean as the unofficial Heavyweight Champion of the World in unlicensed boxing.

To see more –