Книга - Chris Eubank: The Autobiography

Chris Eubank: The Autobiography
Chris Eubank


Love him or loathe him, Chris Eubank is one of life’s more eccentric personalities who has transcended the world of boxing and established himself as a media celebrity and role model to millions of fans the world over. His story is both gripping and extraordinary.He exploded into the public consciousness in November 1990 with a ferocious defeat of Nigel Benn for the WBO middleweight crown. Once crowned champion, he made 19 successful defences of his title and became one of the most talked about boxers of his generation.But his early life was so very different. Aged 15, Eubank was ejected from the last in a long line of care homes and was living on the streets. His life was a mess of shoplifting, burglary, drink and drugs from which there seemed no escape. In 1981, in a last-ditch attempt to drag himself from the abyss, he relocated to New York with his mother. Here he started boxing and within two years he had won the prestigious Spanish Golden Gloves Amateur title.Some of the incredible experiences he recalls in his autobiography include: his involvement in a car crash which saw a man die, how he became Lord of the Manor of Brighton, his reaction to Michael Watson’s horrific injuries sustained in their 1992 super-middleweight contest and subsequent partial recovery, his views on the ‘mugs game’ from which he previously made his living, his relationship with Nelson Mandela and Muhammad Ali, his passion for his truck, jeeps and motorbikes, and his legendary sartorial elegance and extravagance.Eubank’s life as a ‘TV celebrity’ is even more enigmatic and compelling. He was the subject of a Louis Theroux fly-on-the-wall documentary, he was first to be voted out of the Comic Relief Big Brother house, and is the star of his own television programme At Home with the Eubanks. His story is truly extraordinary.




















DEDICATION (#ulink_f0ce899c-ef86-50e9-96bf-0b7951f29969)


To Ena, Irvin,

Christopher, Sebastian, Joseph,

Emily and Karron




CONTENTS


Cover (#u083b7200-83f4-58be-aa91-d23c5ab8cdbc)

Title Page (#ue70fc07c-bf34-5fce-bb5b-2be9fd3d8346)

Dedication (#ulink_2096fcb9-1167-525d-b4f9-ea0c5adfabed)

Prologue (#ulink_b559c7ba-8892-507b-86b0-376195129e8b)

PART ONE: LEARN THE ART

1 A Hard-knocks Life (#ulink_231cfdbf-7425-5304-8668-3d40f959c650)

2 Designer Thief (#ulink_f94f20fb-3c2c-57b9-a780-50334cc018ce)

3 Posers, Bullies and Triers (#ulink_caa3ed05-d5d5-5bde-b93d-9feedea17d6d)

4 Golden Boy (#ulink_b871fa0a-a4a2-5434-bcb7-e46b19d4c874)

5 Doctor Johnson (#ulink_19e95633-6fd3-5ad2-b988-da5e6db7336f)

PART TWO: APPLY THE PHILOSOPHY

6 Homesick (#ulink_ee63206f-63de-5438-bba3-2fdba91e41d3)

7 Hate me, but don’t Disrespect Me (#ulink_b0dc8662-617a-543a-b4a9-1df6478d42b0)

8 It’s a Mug’s Game (#ulink_5fe9d249-4a6e-5179-a2af-989d74eb578b)

PART THREE: ACQUIRE THE FINANCIAL SECURITY

9 WBO Middleweight Champion (#ulink_5b9e2ccb-f6ed-51c4-827a-2b25d6540d76)

10 The Warrior Within (#ulink_c762c0a9-53be-5ce5-b8a7-306a30c49635)

11 Godspeed Shattered (#ulink_7b64ee27-b119-5ba1-ba78-8501e7bde1d9)

12 This Spartan Life (#ulink_495e5067-6c21-54b7-9965-37ae4aac301f)

13 The Showman (#ulink_2c692c64-60be-53b1-a3cc-90e50df76485)

14 Destroying the Destroyer . . . Finally (#ulink_4bc491bb-e368-57dc-acc2-2c417e0505ac)

15 Tyson (#ulink_759b0785-b705-54bc-a65c-056a9ebd41ac)

PART FOUR: ACHIEVE THE FAME

16 The Sky’s the Limit (#ulink_d7dcc3da-251b-57d0-88b2-460bdeacd886)

17 Max (#ulink_eed9df03-b7dd-5a87-8e1e-ec26742470da)

18 Community Spirit (#ulink_31408242-d64f-535f-a261-2563b1303c57)

19 Psychologically Challenged (#ulink_ec653b10-1e27-5778-b1af-6ff14903c2eb)

20 Luck of the Irish (#ulink_cf17d063-dc03-5a67-85b8-c25f3383fc1d)

21 Style on the Nile (#ulink_c2a9beff-9bdf-5419-b095-b2c03d3afa58)

PART FIVE: EARN THE RESPECT

22 Winning the Lottery (#ulink_12d8c00a-5a24-59dc-be44-073910de0984)

23 A Sweet Tooth and Swollen Eyes (#ulink_df567e0f-86e4-5c1e-ad5b-8b57c74fad4e)

24 Samantha (#ulink_1a879508-7517-5ae1-a154-546a963f31aa)

25 A Heavy Heart (#ulink_3b32ff77-cd14-563b-96f4-f7615e923105)

26 Just Being Me (#ulink_0002499b-0a4e-581e-b52b-9a6a4f890363)

27 At Home with the Eubanks (#ulink_013f9d8c-b099-5b76-be8d-6c77a19c5004)

Picture Section (#ulink_46c7c405-7891-520e-9cff-87951f9de8c5)

Epilogue (#ulink_a289980e-6aa6-5897-ad2d-35ac21eacbd7)

Career Statistics (#ulink_9b111a17-41ed-51e8-9869-f6b9bd2fc7c0)

Index (#ulink_74542440-d547-58a8-8eea-4f52027d27ba)

Copyright (#ulink_aaf0a3c6-048f-52f6-8a27-d0c5d50ae824)

About the Publisher (#ulink_5f014a30-15c8-5605-98ec-64bfbdb44717)


Mandela

To whoever it may concern:

There isn’t any bigger slavery than the slavery of compromise and acceptance of all the wrongs perpetrated against the African and Africa.

I never thought thoughts to make me otherwise than what I am, so my obliviousness to what you have been taught to think I should be is a statement of my humanity. As a footnote to that, it is a fact that human character is independent of colour and creed.




PROLOGUE (#ulink_7b8ae0b5-727d-59b3-bb3a-204b0797937c)


‘Ice cream, jelly and a punch in the belly.’ Dorothy used to say this to me every time I went round to her house. She was a very old, German Jewish lady, aged 93, whom my mother worked for as a live-in nurse in New York. I was only 19, negotiating my way through life in one of the toughest cities in the world. I had been sent to the Big Apple to distract me from the life of delinquency that threatened to pull me under back in England.

I loved Dorothy; she used to call me ‘sonny boy’. She accepted me. She was wheelchair-bound and I used to pick her up to put her into bed. I would sit and talk to her while my mother, a kind and extremely generous woman, busied herself. The house was crammed full of nostalgic bric-a-brac from over the years. There was also money lying around.

In those days, I never had a penny, so I started to take $20 bills from Dorothy’s room. This went on for about two years and added up to over $2000. I knew it was wrong, but I assuaged my guilt by telling myself that Dorothy wasn’t using the money and my mother didn’t notice.

There are certain things you do in your life that you regret but, if you put them right, you feel so much better. I knew I had to give that money back, especially when it became clear Dorothy was becoming progressively more fragile. By now, my fledgling boxing career had progressed quite nicely and I was taking bouts in England, flying back and forth between Brighton and New York. At that point, I was earning a small weekly allowance plus £700 a fight, so I saved up the equivalent of $2500 over a period of months and the very next time I visited Dorothy, I put the money back in her home. If I hadn’t done that, my indiscretion would have weighed very heavily on my mind. Thankfully, I paid her back.

Dorothy died two weeks later.



PART ONE (#ulink_f2de9616-d687-5d78-94a5-038d535461f8)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_a60b0e7b-22a5-58e2-acee-1d8d7ca67835)

A HARD-KNOCKS LIFE (#ulink_a60b0e7b-22a5-58e2-acee-1d8d7ca67835)


My father, Irvin Eubank, was a great storyteller. One of the many anecdotes he recounted described how he acquired his limp. When he was just a toddler, his own father had put some breadfruit in the stove. He was told not to take the breadfruit out and eat it, which, of course, was exactly what he did when he found himself alone for a few moments. When his father found out, he slashed the youngster’s lower leg with a machete. My father had a severely hard life, but he would have told this tale to one person one way and told another person a totally different story! Another version had him being cut out of a terrible car wreck and losing his calf muscle in the process. He was such a character, and I see some of that in myself.

He was born on 28 August 1929, in the district of Mount Airey, Clarendon, in Jamaica. He cut sugar cane in the fields for most of his younger years. That is where he met and eventually married my mother Ena who was then, and always will be, deeply religious. She was well known in church circles in Clarendon. She had been married previously and had five children, my older half-brothers and sisters, whom I rarely see. My mother was born on 15 March 1931 in Clarendon. She left school aged 17 and became a nurse’s domestic helper. She met her first husband and married him at the age of 2 5, but unfortunately he died only three years later, leaving my mother on her own with their five children. Then, in 1960, she met my father.

My father saved diligently for many years for the plane fares to migrate to the UK, stuffing his hard-earned cash under a mattress until such a time as the move could be made. They settled in south London and life was very difficult, an endless grind of poverty and hard work. I was born in East Dulwich on 8 August 1966, their fifth child, after David, the twins Simon and Peter, and Joycelyn. My mother told me their main goal was to get their own home and to do so with five kids around was very hard. So, we were sent to Jamaica to be with our grandmother, on my mother’s side, when I was still only a baby. My earliest memory is of being pulled on a banana leaf in the hills by my cousin Woodia. Other than that, I have no recollection of my time there. My grandmother was called Constance, but we called her ‘Uncun’. She has passed away now. When she was still alive and I had become world champion, I hired and flew in a helicopter packed with supplies of clothes and foodstuffs to Callington, the mountain-top village where she lived. To this day, when I travel to Jamaica, they say, ‘You’re the man who came in the helicopter.’

My mother visited as often as she could and was always sending money over too. On one of these visits, she came with the good news that they now had a house in Crystal Palace Road in south east London. Taking fright at how ill we looked, she convinced herself that we were malnourished, knowing as she did how tough life can be in the countryside of Jamaica. She immediately rounded up the four boys, packed our belongings and took us back to England, leaving Joycelyn to stay with grandmother.

I don’t remember coming back from Jamaica, but I have clear recollections of my early life back in the UK. We lived in various council estates in London, including Crystal Palace Road, Peckham, Stoke Newington, Hackney and Dalston. My first memory in the UK was of my mother slapping me senseless for pretending I had a stomach ache, when I actually had four packets of Wotsits shoved underneath my coat that I had stolen from a sweet shop while with her in Stoke Newington. I was also quite adept at stealing from the bread van owned by the nearby bakery.

I started smoking at six years old. I used to follow my brothers and go round to Old Ed’s house nearby. He must have been in his late eighties and used to give us cigarettes. If he wasn’t around, I would make roll-ups by stealing Old Holborn from my father’s tobacco tin as he was sleeping on the settee.

Although at times we were desperately poor, I was a happy child. I adored the very ground my mother walked on, still do. I went everywhere with her. Unconsciously I used to follow her every step around the house. Sometimes she would suddenly stop, playfully stick her bum out and boom! I’d crash into her backside. I adored her, my mum. She ruled with a firm hand too – in Jamaican households you do what you are told and you do it the first time. That said, she only used to beat me with a foam slipper which weighed about two grammes! It was like being hit with a piece of paper, but I was more concerned about the expression on her face. I was desperate not to upset her. She never smacked me with her hand and my father only ever used a belt.

Despite my father’s difficult circumstances, he always said he had a good life. Why? Because he never let it weigh him down, he never had a chip on his shoulder. These are two facets of his personality that I have inherited and are vital factors in my psyche and subsequent success. Like father like son.

At first, life in the UK had been happy and in 1974 my parents were married in Hackney. However, shortly after, when I was eight, my mother left my father and went to live in New York. I didn’t see her very often between her leaving and me travelling to New York aged 16. It wasn’t until then that I found out one of the reasons why she had left. I kept asking over the space of a year why she had moved away; she broke down and explained the situation to me several times. She told me that when she would come in the front door another woman would leave out the back. He was a womaniser and she had had enough. At least, that’s what she told me. That is not what I subsequently found out to be the case, but I will come to that later in my story. Even then, as a 16-year-old boy, I knew that this is what some men are like, and I did not think ill of my father. The laws of morality are expounded by the scriptures but, to some people, actually applying these principles can prove very testing. I understand that a lot of men stray. I know men who stray; that is life.

Back in 1974, however, leaving the marital home was not a decision my mother could have taken lightly, especially in the light of her deeply religious views. I think removing herself from that situation as a wife was relatively easy; what was hard was walking away from her children.

Growing up without my mother, I knew that we had very little money even though my father worked incredibly hard. He took a job at the Ford plant in Dagenham, where he smoothed iron on long shifts, six days on days, six days on nights. He was a hard man, not least because he’d had a tough upbringing himself, but also this was back-breaking work for a pittance of pay. I can vividly recall us all getting up at 5am to jump-start his Ford Cortina so he could get to work. He earned £90 a week.

It is fair to say that my father was a disciplinarian. However, I wouldn’t say my upbringing was a hard life; it was correct. We got the strap as punishment so often that I began to become quite apprehensive of him. In retrospect, I have no problems whatsoever with him using the strap, even though I would not do the same with my own children (I use my hand on the bottom if I am going to smack them). The strap is not excessive, but the impression this gives a child is not necessarily always good.

Although he sometimes made me feel anxious, he was a brilliant, colourful character whom I loved dearly. My father was a very generous man. Although we had very little money, he was still very giving. He would often buy six or seven mangoes, which he would wash himself, then take the plateful out into the tenement courtyard for his friends and neighbours to enjoy. Whatever he had, other people could have. My father also had a very good sense of humour. He was a character, with his limp, his bald head and his short stature. I haven’t known any other man with his degree of charisma and humour. In a Jamaican sense, my father was ‘dread’, meaning ‘magnificently cool’. When I was a teenager, I thought he spoke very good English but in fact he didn’t really, it was like a dialect he could switch on at times.

He rarely gave me advice but when he did it was right; he was strict to ensure we behaved in a correct manner. He would talk to us into the small hours, making good points but repeating himself – as drunk people do. I would understand what he was saying the first time but we couldn’t fall 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.

We moved to south London when I was 11 and went to Bellenden Junior School before moving on to Thomas Carlton Secondary. Unfortunately, by now, I had a somewhat boisterous reputation and was suspended 18 times in one school year for misbehaviour. I used to get into fights all the time over marbles. If it wasn’t marbles, it was protecting smaller kids from bullies. As a kid, I watched movies like The Three Musketeers. I still love watching films. Back then, I wanted to be just like the characters I saw on the big screen. Take D’Artagnan – I was going to grow up to be that guy, swinging into battle from a chandelier, taking on and beating anybody while still being utterly chivalrous and stylish. I modelled myself on characters like that. That is one of the reasons I got suspended from school so many times, going to the aid of bullied kids. I was a loner and drew little influence from my peer group, instead looking towards those sort of movies for my inspiration.

Occasionally, however, it was my short fuse that caused the problem – when you don’t know how to express yourself, your feelings manifest themselves in a fashion that is immature and angry. One time, for example, I said to this kid, ‘You are chewing your gum too loud,’ and that was that – bang! I dropped him. My build was only average but I was always ‘extra’ – namely I was a showman. I have never been a show-off, that is a negative word. My intention was always (and still is) to be a showman, to entertain.

I wasn’t powerful so I lost as many fights as I won, but I was righteous. I fought at least three days a week with bullies and at least four days a week with my brothers. I then moved to Peckham Manor Secondary School, where such behaviour continued and I was expelled after only one month.

When I was 13, I grew dreadlocks and became a rasta. I smoked a lot of weed too. I eventually cut the locks off, because my father stopped talking to me. He was a Jamaican who wasn’t into the rasta lifestyle, so he was very disapproving. However, he loved Bob Marley. The album Exodus was on my Dad’s record player all the time. I think at one point it was the only record he actually had. Despite being on constant rotation, I never tired of hearing that album, it was my homely feel cut into vinyl. Still today, whenever I hear the record, it brings back floods of memories. Marley was a great musician, and that style of music is in my soul. He has also been a great motivator for me – his words are all about strength of character, rectitude, correctness, righteousness: being an earth man.

Back then, I had so much energy. However, I did not always do the correct thing, I still had a lot to learn. This energy carried over into my behaviour outside of school as well. If someone wanted to steal some sweets, I was always the first in the queue. And, I didn’t just take a single Mars bar, I would grab five. I would take the task in hand and do it.




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_9ad18997-e6e0-5f02-894a-90b303149604)

DESIGNER THIEF (#ulink_9ad18997-e6e0-5f02-894a-90b303149604)


One day my father came back from work and said to my brothers, ‘Where’s Christopher?’ No one knew. At 9 o’clock that evening, there was a knock at the door and it was the police, who informed my father that I had been taken into care. I don’t know if the authorities can do that without consent, but they certainly did it with me. I’d had a social worker assigned to me for some time at Peckham Manor. He was called Mr Lord Okine, an African fellow who drove this little white Datsun. I didn’t even know what a social worker was, I didn’t understand.

Peter was the first brother to be taken into care, then David, then me. Simon stayed at home. It was not my father’s fault: he didn’t give us up to care, the authorities took us away. It wasn’t a complete shame for me because it had become boring at home with Dad. I couldn’t stop misbehaving, it was in my nature. I remember thinking, why is this man beating me so much? I realised it was because I was getting caught . . . so I stopped getting caught.

The first care home I went to was The Hollies in Sidcup. It was a massive complex made up of 36 different homes, each named after trees, and one called Reception Centre where I was. My brother David was in Larch. I was met at Reception Centre by a member of staff who took me on a tour of the building. He showed me a room which had a table tennis table, a pool table and a communal eating area. The tour continued, revealing a tuck shop, a storage room and the staff room, before finally ending up at my dormitory. They sat me down in there and gave me my briefing.

Being taken into care was almost like winning the lottery. Can you imagine my sense of bliss? The fridge was full of food – beefburgers, sausages, everything. I could play pool. I had a dorm with new friends to meet and, most fantastically of all, my own warm bed – no more four to a mattress! The whole place was even heated! It was such a wonderful experience meeting these kids from Scotland, Manchester, all over the UK, seeing their different attitudes, hearing their different tales. That first term at The Hollies was one of the best experiences of my life – I had three meals a day, table tennis, pool, and there were girls. Heaven! We used to climb down the drainpipes to get into their dorms: it was such good fun.

But just as at school, however, I found myself getting into trouble and was shifted between care homes several times in four years. In 1979 I went to Yastrid Hall in North Wales, which I now know to have been in the midst of the sexual abuse scandal that did not come to light until the mid-90s, when it was revealed that a network of adults appeared to have been involved in abusing children across the country. I wasn’t abused sexually or otherwise, I didn’t even know there was a problem. It has transpired that certain children were being abused, but at the time I never knew. Admittedly, I was engrossed in my own little world but, fortunately for me, that whole terrible saga passed me by.

From Yastrid Hall, I went to Stanford House in Shepherds Bush for seven weeks in a lock-up for assessment. From there I was sent to St Vincent’s in Dartford for a month, before being expelled and taken to Orchard Lodge in Crystal Palace, for another seven-week assessment in a secure unit. From there, I went to Karib, a care home for ethnic minorities in Nunhead, SE 15, was expelled again after only one month, then sent to Davy’s Street in Peckham.

All this time I was a highly unruly boy. I still had a short fuse, I was a very fast runner (ten miles in 72 minutes when I was 13), quite clever, and my sleight of hand wasn’t too bad. I took full advantage of my skills, always breaking into staff rooms and tuck shops or the newsagents down the road to pilfer cartons of 200 cigarettes. Such petty crimes later progressed to shoplifting and repetitive absconding.

Yes, it could be described as a very itinerant childhood. However, my view is this: moving around so much is the perfect way to ensure that an individual continues to have new experiences. You never get stuck in a rut when you’re barely at the same place for more than three months at a time. Constantly having to make new friends was not a burden because I preferred my own company anyway; I was still something of a loner. Now, as an adult, I can travel anywhere and feel comfortable in any situation, an ability I put down partly to these teenage years spent on the move.

It was around this time that, despite my antics to the contrary, I started to read proverbs. Although it would be some years before I succeeded in applying (or at least tried to apply) myself to many of the words I was reading, the wisdom they offered always appealed to me. I was always enthralled and intrigued by the wise man and words.

In North Wales, there was a kid in care with me called Timmy Brian, who had this marvellous way of strutting about. I watched him swagger around and noted the effect this had on people, so I started to do my own version, with my own flavour. Timmy was a very courageous black kid from Nottingham who thought of himself as Superman. He used to point his hands skywards like he was flying through the air and I used to roar with laughter. Sometimes I still copy him. If you’ve watched me on television, perhaps on A Question of Sport, you may have seen me doing this. When a show starts, the warm-up man asks the audience to give a round of applause, even though no one has done anything of note yet. I always thought that was an odd situation, so when it happens and the applause starts out of nowhere, I often put my hand in the air like Superman, like Timmy Brian. It is just a fun thing but, of course, some critics say, Oh, look at Eubank, assuming they are clapping him.’ I’m not, I’m just being a big kid again, back in North Wales with Timmy.

At my last care home, Davy’s Street in Peckham, I was always getting into trouble with one particular care worker. He was a huge man, very tall. It was not his considerable size that was most threatening however – what was most scary was the fact he never treated me for what I was, namely still a teenager. He saw me from day one as an adult and for that reason his obvious dislike for me felt much more tangible and intimidating.

One day we’d had yet another disagreement over something I had done, so he cornered me. He was really angry and breathing heavily with fury. He leaned down over me and said in a truly menacing tone, ‘I don’t give a f**k about any of this, I will kill you.’ Now I had stood up to my fair share of bullies and bigger men in my younger years, but I knew this man was simply too big and too aggressive to mess around with. After this unseemly confrontation, I went to the bathroom and, because the home was a lock-up at the front, I crawled out the window and was gone. I was never in care again.

I had been so unruly when I visited my father on leave from the care homes, he could not tolerate my behaviour and eventually refused to have me back home at all. For the next 18 months, I was homeless. My territory was around Peckham and the Walworth Road, I did not have a permanent roof over my head. Much has been made in the media, and indeed by the public I meet, about how awful this must have been. No, I won’t have this said. I lived like a king. I wouldn’t say it was bliss, because bliss is not having to work and being at ease with yourself. You can’t really be at ease when you don’t know where you are going to sleep that night. So it wasn’t bliss, but it wasn’t far off.

I was a teenage kid, shoplifting daily and earning easily over £100 by 6 o’clock each night. I was young, quick, had good sleight of hand and bundles of courage, so I was never really too compromised. I had girlfriends all over the place and as much marijuana, Special Brew and Treats as I wanted, I went to Blues dances, called Shobins, two or three nights a week and was driven around everywhere by taxi, wearing the finest clothes. I was my own boss, I had no parents to report back to, no school to trouble me. I was lord of my own manor.

During this time, I was part of one of the most proficient shoplifting gangs in the country. On a bad day we would take home £110 per man, but when we were on song we would make £180 each. At the time, the average wage was perhaps £60 a week. There were four of us in the gang: myself (Eu-ey), Sticks, Nasty and Beaver. Sticks took his nickname from the Jamaican term for a thief, while Nasty earned his monicker because he was girl mad. They were both Nigerians. Beaver was the last man to join up. I now realise that this behaviour is foolish, but having gone through it myself I can relate to youngsters and talk to them effectively about getting caught up in this kind of lifestyle.

We worked Monday to Friday, consummately professional, and were very exacting in our standards. We wore suits, shirts and ties and always looked immaculate. Before a job, I would put on my Italian mohair suit, a crisp shirt and tie, and my prized Burberry coat. At the time, Burberry had just introduced these extremely sturdy security tags, so stealing one of their range was not an option, you had to buy your Burberry coat. I vividly recall going to Haymarket to purchase mine: it cost £180 and was a sight to behold. Magnificent. Oh, man, I felt I had arrived. On the streets, how you dress is inextricably linked to how much respect you command, so I was always intimately fascinated by the latest fashions. That may well have something to do with my latter-day passion for dress code.

The purpose of the Burberry coat was twofold. Firstly, you looked impeccable, not at all like a shoplifter. Secondly, if you bought the coat legitimately, you were given a Burberry’s bag, which was effectively a licence to steal anything. You would walk into some of the finest clothing shops in the West End and look as if you could afford to buy any item. The sales representatives never suspected a thing, they probably assumed I was some rich African youngster with money to burn. That uniform was crucial to our success.

We had numerous locations to work, including Oxford Street. Of course, things would not always go our way and sometimes we would end up being chased.

That year on the streets was so exciting. We were at the peak of our shoplifting prowess. I had all this money and freedom and never wanted to compromise that by staying at a hostel. Instead, I would crash on friends’ floors most of the time, flitting from one run-down flat to the next. I blagged it, as they say. I would go to someone’s house and get so drunk I couldn’t leave. It was during this time that I started to smoke weed very heavily. I had begun when I was only 12, but by this time on the streets I was a very heavy user. A lot of my shoplifting money was spent on weed, booze and clothes. I must have smoked thousands of pounds of ganja over the years. I still knew quite a few rastafarians and that influenced my attitude towards smoking too.

About once a week I would not be able to get a floor for the night, so I would break into a car and sleep on the back seat. I spent many a happy night napping on car seats in Peckham, Camberwell or the Elephant and Castle. On a few occasions, I did end up sleeping under a mattress but I didn’t like that: the cold still got through to my bones. The longest stint I had under a proper roof was at Nasty’s. Even then, he got tired of this after a couple of weeks and said, ‘Look, Chris, I can’t handle it anymore, you need to find somewhere else.’

I was still only a kid but I had been living on my own instincts for so long, my sense of self-survival was deeply ingrained. When your mother isn’t there and you live with your father who is doing long shift work, you don’t have time to be a child. If you want food, you have to find it yourself. With the benefit of hindsight, it is apparent that my personality was becoming heavily predisposed towards the life of solitude, hardship and suffering that is boxing. I maintain to this day that my childhood never felt like this. I have no complaints, but looking back I do accept that in a sense I was in training for the noble art from almost my first breath.

Of course, however buoyant I kept my disposition, life on the street wasn’t all a bed of roses. Inevitably, I found myself in compromising situations from time to time. One night, I had nowhere to sleep, so Sticks introduced me to a chef he knew vaguely. I later found out he was also gay but no one told me this at first. I needed a roof for the night, so I had to keep calm when I went inside his dishevelled flat and saw dozens of machetes and knives all over the house. I said, ‘I’ll be okay to sleep on the settee,’ but he was adamant, saying, ‘It’s a matter of principle that you sleep on the bed.’ I politely refused, but he was insistent. He seemed cool to me, so eventually I said, ‘Fine, okay,’ and settled down in this bed. At about 3 o’clock in the morning, I suddenly felt this big hand wrap around my waist and start to pull me backwards as he cuddled up to me. I was out of the bed like a flash! Then it struck me that I was with a complete stranger whose house was filled with cutlasses and various other blades, and now I may have offended his feelings. The night before I had burgled a house in Seven Sisters Road and took a camera, which I’d left on this man’s coffee table. I tried to say to him calmly, ‘I’m not like that,’ before grabbing my camera and clothes and hot-footing it out the door! I headed out into the street, but as I was halfway down the road, I got this bad feeling and decided to hide behind a wall, for no specific reason. Seconds later, a police patrol car slowly drove past. I was always blessed with an intuitive street sense that kept me out of trouble so often. Imagine if they had found me, a young black teenager wandering the streets in the middle of the night, out of breath and with a camera around my neck!

People often ask me how it feels to possess the material things my boxing success has brought me, having come from being a homeless delinquent. I do not see it like that. Whatever our individual circumstances, we are all fighting and each person’s own individual predicament is relative, it feels like a hefty burden. I always say to people, ‘If I have £1 billion and you have nothing, then my burdens are as heavy as yours. I still have things to do, I still have problems, I still have aches and pains. Nature doesn’t give anyone more than they can handle.’ Everyone’s burden is heaviest. I prefer to look at things this way. If I look at it any other way, it gives people who are less fortunate an excuse to say the world owes them something – it doesn’t. The world owes you nothing. If I had looked at my younger years in that way, I would have suffocated in resentment. I could not allow that, I had things to do. I had to fly, so to speak.

One night, I took a taxi to a gentleman’s outfitters in Brighton. We usually hired a taxi to take us around our daily targets, the driver would be paid £70 for the day and was aware of what we were doing. When I got there, the driver pulled up into a side street and I got out with my tool, namely a pickaxe. It was 3am and the streets were deserted. The store had a double set of floor-to-ceiling glass doors. They were alarmed but that was never a deterrent. I took the pickaxe and, smash!, embedded it in the top right-hand corner. Then, smash!, again in each corner, four very deliberate and targeted blows so that the large pane was weakened. It was then simple enough to kick the glass through and walk into the store.

Of course, the alarm was going off, which in the still of the night always sounded amplified 1000 times. However, I was serenely calm. All the butterflies I’d had before the event had dissipated. This was how I was with any job, whether it was stealing clothes or fighting a contender – as soon as it started I would be at peace.

I grabbed about six suits and then just stood there, stock still in the centre of the store, soaking up the peace. When I was ready, I simply walked to the taxi and headed back to London. Easy. On the M23, however, these two sleek police Jaguar cars pulled up alongside us. I looked behind and another one had taken position to our rear. It transpired that someone had heard the alarm, saw me break in and called the police. I was nicked.

There was no escape. They hauled me up in court and I explained that it was just a matter of money, that this was not my usual behaviour. Things were looking quite bleak, but thankfully the judge granted me bail, which I jumped and headed for a new life which was waiting for me . . . in New York.





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