Read Online The Guv'nor by Lenny McLean - Free Book Online

up until then, so I was no kitten. Nothing could be as bad as what I’d suffered at home. If Stamford House had an old school tie, most of the villains in London would be knotted up with one. Charlie Richardson and Ronnie Biggs are two chaps who spring to mind. It wasn’t Oxford or Cambridge, but it turned out some likely lads. It wasn’t a prison so they didn’t bang us up and we didn’t have to work. We had to do lessons, though, and that was hard for me – I hadn’t put in a full week at school for years. What most kids feared wasn’t the screws – or teachers, as they liked to be thought of – nor the system in general. What they really worried about was other kids, the tough, violent kids. And there were always plenty of them.
    About a week after I moved in, this little, effeminate kid in the next bed to me said, ‘Lenny, I got something to tell you.’ Now I’m a big lad, and this kid’s about the size of tuppence, so I reckon he’s looking for a minder.
    â€˜Lenny,’ he said, ‘the Daddy is telling everybody that you’re a cockney poof.’
    â€˜What do you mean, fucking “Daddy”?’, I said. ‘Who’s that?’
    â€˜It’s that Scotch boy in the next house, the tough one.’
    I realised that by ‘Daddy’ he meant ‘Guv’nor’.
    â€˜Well, you pass the word down the line that Lenny McLean thinks he’s a haggis-eating c**t.’
    That was a Friday. On Saturdays we were all allowed to play in the orchards in the grounds. You weren’t allowed to climb the trees, but you could play cricket or football, or lay and have a kip. That’sexactly what I was doing when I looked up to see a big kid of about 16, standing right over me, surrounded by a gang of others.
    He looked down at me and said, ‘So you’re the tough guy who’s browning all the little ones in Amby.’ I knew who he was because of that ‘hoots mon’ voice, and I never even got up. I just put some leather in his bollocks while I was still lying on the grass.
    As he went down clutching his nuts, I leapt up ready to give him some more. Then I was grabbed from behind. Luckily I didn’t back-nut whoever it was, because it was one of the teachers.
    â€˜Right,’ he said, ‘you know the rules.’ I didn’t, but he soon put me right. ‘If you want to fight, it’s in the ring only, so three o’clock in the gym or you’re on report.’
    I didn’t know it at the time but this was a regular Saturday afternoon event, the official way fights were settled – boxing matches in the main hall and everybody would be there to watch. So that’s what happened. At about four, we’re in the ring; plimsolls, shorts and gloved up. Referee as well. Professional stuff.
    As we touched gloves I whispered to Jock, ‘How’s your maraccas?’ That got his temper up, so he wasn’t thinking. Me, I’m as cool as a cucumber. The first round knocked the temper out of him, and the second spilled enough of his claret for them to stop the fight. His nose was bleeding and his lip was cut and all the other kids were cheering. Even the teachers were clapping.
    Once we’d been cleaned up, we both had to go to the main desk to get our prize, which was an apple or an orange – the winner had first choice. I chose the orange, and didn’t it taste sweet! Now I’m the Daddy.
    Did the Jock get his revenge by creeping up on me in the dark with half a brick? No, he didn’t. Like all kids everywhere, once the fight was out of the way we became the best of pals.
    The pair of us got into a bit of trouble one day and we were due for a right bollocking, so I said: ‘Fuck this … let’s have it away.’ I’d been there for about three months so I knew the layout and the ropes, so getting out was easy as pie. Straight after roll-call we just walked