asleep; if we were close to dropping off he would cut his eye at us, and bang the doors. This again was mostly for effect to get our attention. He was a man of few words but when he did offer advice, it was very telling, and as the months and years went by, I realised just how correct he was.
Dad slaved away, bringing us up on a shoestring; he stayed the course for us. I remember the police coming for my brother Peter one night when he had been up to no good and my father slammed the door in their faces – he would chastise us if we stepped out of line, but he closed ranks when it was needed. He didn’t quit on us.
One time I had broken into a games arcade with a friend of mine, stealing about £2000 in ten pence pieces. We were dragging these very heavy sacks of coins along the floor, and needed some help. I called my father and he helped us load the money into the boot of his car and take it to a friend’s house. However, the police arrived shortly afterwards and we had to jump across their neighbour’s balcony to escape. This may sound like my father was happy to see me carry on in this fashion: he wasn’t but he didn’t give me a hard time about it either because he was resigned to the fact that he had to help his son. This was one of the reasons I was sent to America, I couldn’t stay out of trouble and this was my father’s way of helping me break free.
His language was fabulous to hear; he was a yardman, a Jamaican. Ironically, he talked Jamaica down quite often, saying, ‘Jumayka a de wors’ country inna de worl’. Inglan a de bes’ cuntry inna de worl’. Jus’ look pon de nym . . . Jumayka!’
He lived his life to the full, for the here and now. He loved women, gambling, drinking and, when he was drunk, cursing. Life was never dull when my father was around. I loved my father. I adored him. I still do, even though he died in July 2000.
Even though my father’s behaviour with other women had provoked my mother to leave, it was his approach to life that I drew on to keep myself buoyant in difficult times. He would never allow himself to be weighed down, as I have explained. This had rubbed off on me so much that when my mother left, I just looked at that as having one less person to dodge. With father working such long hours, I was pretty much my own boy, so in many ways her absence was a marvellous thing. I had so much to do and see and get on with. I could let all my rage out, which was good for me.
Problems never lay heavily on my young shoulders, and that was, and still is, one of my greatest gifts. I know that parental splits destroy some kids, but I guess much depends on your frame of mind. Indeed, one of my brothers didn’t handle their split at all well and still carries some resentment towards my mother to this day. I have never held a shred of bad feeling towards my mother for leaving. That was the way my life was and I accepted that. She had not let me down because you have to take into consideration her circumstances. It wasn’t even a matter of forgiveness, that had nothing to do with it. It was a matter of acceptance.
So many people tell me how my childhood must have been very difficult. It wasn’t. It was life; it was fun. I enjoyed my early years and had a fantastic time. Yes, those council estates were miserable sometimes, but that never dragged me down. Maybe I don’t remember the bad parts because I don’t want to, but that is not how it seems to me. People who are always bemoaning their lot have the mentality of those who are losing. The mentality of people who are winning is to adapt and accept. Of course, I did not articulate or even have an awareness of such an attitude when I was young; it was just the way I was. My mother didn’t let me down, neither did my father.
After my mother left, our circumstances were naturally affected for the worse. Our behaviour became increasingly delinquent, but that was entirely of our own accord, it was not Dad’s fault. I vividly recall one council flat we lived in during 1975, in the middle of the Haggerston slums. We had no heating and no furniture. Not a stick. Father somehow managed to salvage enough money from his measly wages to ensure there were always eggs and bread on the top of the fridge, even if there was little else inside. He would give us 50p each to get some fish and chips, as he was often on shifts and couldn’t cook for us. Most of the time we ate egg sandwiches. People talk about hardship – my father had to bring up four boisterous kids on that £90 a week. He was dutiful, which is one of the traits of a good man. He provided as best he could for his family.
The relationships with my three brothers have proved to be of pivotal importance in my life. The central issue that has been a constant feature of my life is acceptance. I seek acceptance in so many ways, from so many people. This is something that has been ever-present for me and I have thought about it at great length. They say that many people spend their adult lives trying to work out their childhood. Well, I have mine worked out. I know why acceptance is such a force for me. It is because of the way I was treated as a child by my brothers, David, Simon and Peter.
I was the youngest, although there were only four years between all of us. I was always keen to be around them, I always wanted to go where they were going, I desperately wanted to get into trouble like they did, smoke the same cigarettes, steal the same sweets. I wanted to be accepted by them and be with them.
However, this was never the case. In fact, far from accepting me, my brothers openly and constantly denigrated me. They used to call me a c**t; one of them didn’t even talk to me, he said I was too ugly to be his brother. I was always the belittled younger sibling. It was the most inequitable of relationships, because I adored them.
When I was in my early teens, I would sometimes suggest they might have done certain things differently. They would scoff, saying, ‘Shut up, you’re silly, you are only a fool.’ And they were always telling me how to do things, that what I was planning was wrong or how I had reacted to a circumstance was stupid.
I used to fight all the time with David, but I only won once during all those years. That day, he had cornered me and was hitting my arm very hard, when I suddenly turned and smacked him one. I bloodied his nose so he went and told my father who chastised me! Every other fight with David I lost. Sometimes, the television set would get broken because we used to fight over which channel was showing.
Peter never used to hit me, he just dismissed me verbally which was actually more damaging in the long run. Simon was a very hard puncher, which I found out when he knocked me flat in a playground in Peckham when I was only 12. So I kept out of his way and only had a couple of fights with him.
I started to realise that nothing I said would get through to them. Even so, I still wanted their acceptance because I loved them. That became the key issue in my life as I grew up to be a man. In many ways, it was a very positive force, because I had to prove myself to the world, specifically in regards to the business of boxing. However, in the back of my mind, my blossoming career as a pugilist became a way of proving myself specifically to them also. Cheekily, after I had made champion, David once said to me, ‘You should be grateful for all those beatings we gave you; it has made you world champ.’ He said I owed him. That is the way they were, that is what I have had to put up with.
They were harsh on me, but actually I realised they were also harsh on themselves. Later, as an adult, I still loved them but no longer needed their acceptance. However, this background has obviously had a deep effect on me. I find myself looking for acceptance as an adult, even though professionally I was world champion and personally I contribute, I am kind, I teach by example and I help people. However, the omnipresent desire to be accepted was deeply ingrained in me from my childhood and would indelibly colour the course of both my career and my life.
My primary education was at Northwold Infants School in Stoke Newington. Other children didn’t play with me. I was told this was because I was too rough, but I didn’t have a problem with that. I was never a kid who played with toys and games, not least because we couldn’t afford any. I never liked that, I was more into stealing crisps and sweets.
I was sometimes bullied because of my broad nose. They used to call me Hoover and Shotgun Nose. It used to bother me and I would wish for a slimmer nose. Now, as a man, I like it, it’s a beautiful African nose and the only one I have. It also works very well. My feet are like dragon’s claws, but they are the only two I have. I have a gap in my teeth but that is just me. As for the nose, it is actually a superb shape, it has made me a great deal of money. Why? Because when you hit my nose, it simply goes flat rather than breaking.
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