Henry Cooper

by Norman Giller

  Henry had been able to take a good look at Bugner on his rise up the ladder and was as confident as I had ever known him when he stepped into the Wembley ring for the last fight of his career. The referee for the contest was Harry Gibbs, a stony-faced London docks worker who was generally rated the best third man in the business.

  Most of the so-called experts had gone for a Bugner victory because they considered that a combination of my suspect eyes and old legs would let me down against a strong, young opponent who had a reach, height and weight advantage.

  But I had trained as conscientiously for this fight as if it were a world title and I knew I was fit enough to go the full fifteen rounds, if necessary. The only concern I had was if my left elbow seized up. It had been giving me gyp for months, but I had learned to live with the pain. The specialist treatment I’d been receiving meant I was in good nick for what the press found out just before the fight was going to be my last contest.

  Our battle plan was to try to keep Bugner on his back foot because he was not nearly as forceful when he had to box on the retreat. His strongest weapon was a long, solid left lead and I knew I had to block it or make him miss and then counter with my own jabs. I deliberately started at a slow pace because I wanted to have something in reserve for the later rounds when I planned to put my foot on the accelerator.

  I had been in enough fifteen-round fights to know exactly how to pace myself and when and how to put on the pressure, when necessary. Hope this doesn’t sound conceited, but I prided myself on being a thinking boxer and we used to plan our fights like military campaigns. I had always been my own referee, making a mental note of how I was scoring and getting confirmation from Jim in between rounds.

  It was a battle of the jabs, and for ten rounds neither Bugner nor I could have claimed we were in command. At the end of the tenth, Jim leant through the ropes and said into my ear, ‘Now we’ve got to step up the pace. We’ve got to let this geezer know who’s the guvnor.’

  I reckon the fight was even-stevens at the two-thirds mark. In rounds eleven, twelve, thirteen and fourteen I took the fight to Bugner, beating him to the jab and doubling up my punches to the head and increasing my output at the inside exchanges. There was no doubt in my mind that I had won those four rounds and so, as I went into the fifteenth and final round – the final round of my career – I felt in my heart that Bugner had to knock me out to win.

  Joe was obviously told in his corner that he was trailing, because he dug deep down into his boots and produced a grandstand finish. I met him halfway but, being charitable, I’ll concede that he just shaded the round. But I was positive that I had won the fight and as the final bell rang I walked towards Harry Gibbs with my hand outstretched for him to go through the formality of raising my arm as the victor and still British, European and Empire champion.

  You could have knocked me down with a featherweight when Gibbs brushed past me and went to Bugner’s corner and, to Joe’s utter disbelief, raised his hand. I have never been so shocked, stunned, speechless – you name it – in my life. All I could find to say was ‘Cor stone me’, or bleep-bleep words to that effect. It was reported that I said, ‘Thought I scraped it, Harry’, but I said nothing at all to him, although I’d have loved to have given him a mouthful.

  My brother George had his arms wrapped around Jim Wicks, who was in the mood to give Gibbs a right-hander. ‘We’ve been robbed, Enery,’ he kept saying. ‘We’ve been robbed.’

  In a long and distinguished refereeing career, Gibbs had quite rightly gained the respect of the boxing world but on this night he had dropped a right clanger. I said exactly what I thought in my autobiography back in the 1970s, and Gibbs sued me for defamation and won his case. But I know what I know and nobody will be able to convince me otherwise.

  Wembley rocked with the boos of the crowd, who agreed with my assessment of the fight. Most of the ringside reporters had me winning it and BBC commentator Harry Carpenter famously said on air, ‘How can they take away a man’s titles like that?’ From the astonished looks on the faces of Bugner’s cornermen, they also thought I’d retained my titles. I had been the victim of robbery with violence.

  I’ve often heard it said that my going out on a sea of sympathy added to my popularity with the public. Maybe that’s so, but I’d much rather have won their respect by going out as a winner and undefeated champion.

  A confession here: Harry Gibbs was a family friend. He was the leader of a work gang at the London docks that included my uncle, Ted Clark, and they were close pals. For years Harry used to phone me to discuss boxing; he loved a good gossip about the fight game, and he and my dad used to meet for a drink before and after shows.

  Harry always told me his conscience was clear over the Cooper/ Bugner verdict and shrugged when I said I thought Henry had won by at least two rounds. ‘Boxing’s all about opinions,’ he said. ‘Henry was so loved that his fans were only seeing what they wanted to see. Joe in my eyes was a narrow but deserved winner. I called it as I saw it. In his book, Henry suggested I was less than honest. I wasn’t going to stand for that, so I took him to court and won. I didn’t do it for money, but just to clear my good name.’

  A few years down the line I had a huge fall-out with Harry. Members of his old docks work gang were arrested for collecting things that had ‘fallen off the back of a lorry’ and all of them – including my Uncle Ted, Harry’s big mate – were sent to prison with sentences ranging from two to four years. Gibbs was one of the few from the group that got off without charge and refused my request to give a character reference in court for my uncle, who was sent down for two years at the age of sixty-one for doing what dockers had done since time immemorial (or immoral). When I told son-of-a-Bermondsey-docker Jim Wicks, he said: ‘On Harry Gibbs you can’t rely.’

  Jim had long gone to the great racecourse in the sky when, rather reluctantly, Henry buried the hatchet with Gibbs, agreeing to shake hands with him for charity at a fundraising boxing show at the London Hilton in the 1990s. But they never exchanged Christmas cards.

  On the day of the fight, huge amounts of money were placed on Bugner to win, to the point that Jim Wicks was telephoned by his bookmaker associates to ask if Henry was carrying an injury or something. Somebody somewhere was convinced they knew the winner in advance of the fight.

  Long after the Cooper contest, I represented Joe Bugner in a PR capacity. That was quite an adventure because he was as changeable as the weather: extremely likeable, but you never quite knew what mood he would be in from one hour to the next. To his face, I used to call him ‘the mad Hungarian’ and he would give his big friendly grin and hug me with those great bear-like arms of his. Joe had lots of charisma and charm but was often, as we in the East End affectionately described it, as silly as a box of lights.

  He continually cursed winning the fight with Henry. ‘I wish I’d never got the verdict against him,’ he told me. ‘It was as if I was the man who shot Bambi. Everybody loved Henry and the public just never forgave me for beating a legend. In the end I got so fed up with the attitude against me that I emigrated to Australia, where they always make me feel welcome.’

  I put it to him that there were allegations that all was not right with the verdict. He said: ‘I honestly know nothing about that. I was surprised I got the decision, not because I didn’t think I had won but because Henry was and is a legend, and I didn’t think they’d let me take his titles. In many ways, I wish I hadn’t. Winning did me no favours and it helped make Henry an even bigger legend.’

  Joe went on to lose the titles in his first defence against Jack Bodell. Yes, completely unpredictable.

  In 2008, Henry and Joe were brought together by the knowledgeable Steve Bunce for the BBC programme Inside Sport. It was their first reunion since the controversial decision thirty-seven years earlier. Joe, who had his eighty-third and last fight at the age of forty-nine in 1999, was briefly back in London for a testimonial dinner after his Hunter Valley vineyard business had gone belly-
up, leaving him bankrupt with losses of £2 million.

  There was genuine warmth between the two old warriors, but they agreed to disagree on the Harry Gibbs’s verdict. Both were convinced they had won – Joe not quite so convinced as Henry! In the record books there are no doubts:

  Wembley Arena, 16 March 1971: Joe Bugner won points 15.

  As Henry said when he returned to the dressing-room after the fight: ‘That’s it. That’s me lot.’

  A great career was over. A remarkable new career was about to begin.

  ROUND 13

  THE CELEBRITY CIRCUIT

  When most champions step off the sporting stage, they gradually drop out of the spotlight. Not Henry. His popularity increased to the point where he was rivalling even the Queen Mother as Britain’s best-loved personality. The fact that he had a huge framed photograph of himself and the Queen Mum on the wall at the Cooper home proved that he was an unashamed royalist.

  Henry was so lucky to have found Jim Wicks to manage his boxing career. He was equally lucky to have found the perfect person to handle his business affairs during a time when he was the most sought-after ex-sportsman in the land. For more than forty years he was guided through the minefield of media, endorsement, advertising, speech-making and corporate appearances by the esteemed showbusiness agent Johnnie Riscoe, who was later joined by his bubbly, energetic and impeccably organised daughter, Patsy Martin.

  Bad agents can quickly wreck a celebrity’s reputation by choosing the wrong products to advertise, or by placing stories that can damage rather than develop their client’s standing and impair rather than improve the image. Johnnie and Patsy always got it just right, from the amusing Brut ‘Splash It All Over’ campaign, through the Shredded Wheat, Plax, Crown Paint and Pizza Hut promotions, and into his senior years as the affable advocate for the Flu Jab (‘Don’t get knocked out by flu, get your jab in first’). They also booked Henry’s many television appearances, including for what was then the pioneering quiz programme A Question of Sport, with David Vine as the presenter and rugby great Cliff Morgan as the rival team captain.

  ‘Between us,’ Patsy told me, ‘Dad and I were proud to represent Henry for around forty-three years. He was always a joy to handle, a man of great warmth and also integrity. His genial personality, particularly when combined with that of my dear friend Albina, was just infectious. Everybody, but everybody, loved Henry. We were responsible for booking him for hundreds – and I do mean hundreds – of after-dinner speeches, personal appearances, book and television and radio work. And so much of it was done for charity, with Henry refusing a fee and always insisting on driving himself to and from the event and not charging expenses. It was quite astonishing the way he put himself out to help others. There will never be another Henry. He was an agent’s dream, and I am so privileged to have known him and to have represented him. Henry was a champion, in and out of the ring.’

  Henry and Johnnie Riscoe had something other than business helping to cement their friendship – the game of golf. They were both fairway fanatics and a celebrity golf tournament could not start until Henry arrived at the tee, usually in the company of showbusiness buddies like Jimmy Tarbuck, Terry Wogan, Ronnie Corbett, Bruce Forsyth, Michael Parkinson, Frank Carson, Russ Abbot and Kenny Lynch. The golfing equivalent of the Rat Pack, they helped raise millions of pounds for charity in scores of fundraising pro-am golf tournaments.

  Jim Wicks and Johnnie Riscoe were two of the most important people in my life. Jim guided me through my boxing career as carefully and as conscientiously as if he was my dad. Then Johnnie, and his darling daughter Patsy, looked after me outside the ring with loving care; I was a very lucky boy. Later on I had the unforgettable Fleet Street agency powerhouse Reg Hayter organising book and newspaper deals for me and then Terry Baker, a lively entrepreneur from down in Dorset, set up a series of road shows. But, no question, it was Johnnie Riscoe and Patsy who did most to keep me in the public eye and with a nice few earners along the way.

  It was Johnnie who kept encouraging me to concentrate on my golf because he knew it would give me the perfect outlet for my energy once the daily grind of training was suddenly over. I was chuffed to be made executive chairman of the Variety Club of Great Britain Golfing Society, which was brilliantly run by Johnnie and Patsy. Through that I made life-long friends with scores of showbiz people including, of course, Tarby, Terry Wogan, Ronnie Corbett, Bruce Forsyth and the like. You can imagine the stick I’ve had to take playing with that lot, particularly when I’ve been hooking the ball off the tee. Tarby would say things like, ‘Our Enery’s ’Ammer is back – everybody duck!’

  I was particularly proud to host the annual Henry Cooper Golfing Classic at Muswell Hill, with all proceeds going to the Ex-Boxers’ Association. A lot of the old fighters were not as lucky as me and many of them were on their uppers. It was great to have the opportunity to raise a few bob to help them.

  People ask me if I’ve any regrets and I have to say the only one is that I didn’t get more consistent on the golf course. One day I could play like a single handicapper, the next like a complete rabbit. I had a slice that Hovis could not have bettered and I’ve spent more time in bunkers than Hitler. It’s the most frustrating game ever invented, and I’ve loved every minute of playing, even on the bad days. I spent so much time at the London Golf Club, near Brands Hatch, that it became like a second home and Albina used to say I should have my bed there. But she was as good as gold about all the time I spent on the course – I suppose it kept me from getting under her feet.

  Cliff Morgan and I had a ball on A Question of Sport and to think we got paid for it. He was something of an intellectual, while I used to crash through the grammar gears and dropping aitches all over the place. But it worked, and we had a good chemistry. Back then my memory was working and I had quite a good knowledge of sports history and the personalities of the day. I can remember the first show as if it was yesterday. Actually it was 1970 and the team guests were George Best, the lovely Lillian Board, England cricket captain Ray Illingworth and football legend Tom Finney. Best and Finney on the same show, arguably the two greatest ever British footballers.

  What viewers didn’t know is that those early shows were filmed in an old Manchester church that had been converted and we used to shoot the programmes on a Sunday in what used to be the nave. Dear old David Vine used to pretend he was a vicar and would give a sham sermon to the audience just to get them warmed up: ‘Dearly beloved, we’re gathered here today’, all that sort of stuff, and he’d add, ‘During our first hymn, Cliff Morgan and Henry Cooper will pass among you with the collecting box: please give generously.’ Lovely days.

  But the most fun I had in front of a camera was when I was making the ‘Splash It All Over’ ads for Brut, with Kevin Keegan and Barry Sheene putting some youth into the commercials. They were a great couple of characters and the hardest job the director had was trying to stop us laughing so they could shoot the scripted bits. Barry was a real rascal and would deliberately try to make me corpse when I was saying my lines. He had so much metal holding him together after a couple of serious crashes that he could have played the Six Million Dollar Man for real. When he used to arrive on the set he would say to the crew, ‘If any of you’ve got magnets, please leave them outside, otherwise you’re going to find yourself drawn to me and we could have some embarrassing moments.’

  I remember a solo commercial I did for Brut, in which I was singing Gershwin’s ‘Summertime’ in the bath. We must have shot it thirty times and then the director settled on the first take. I got to hate that bloody song! The adverts were amazingly popular and for years I couldn’t go anywhere without somebody shouting, ‘Splash it all over, Enery!’ Tell you what, it was a much better way of making a crust than getting your nose bashed in.

  Yes, it was sweet smell of success time. Free from the disciplines of boxing, Henry discovered a taste for wine and champagne, though never over-indulging. For the first time in his life he started sm
oking to the point that in 1984 he was named Pipe Smoker of the Year, which he described as ‘another nice little earner’ because he was paid by the tobacco company for the publicity shots.

  Henry had a wonderful life with more adventures, rich experiences and entertainment than half a dozen other people have had between them. Something I have not touched on in this maze of a memoir is his insistence on a good family holiday. Here, he is remembering some of his happiest days, reminiscing about holidays, the good and the bad. You can warm your hands on his memories:

  We were very big on holidays, Albina and me. You have to remember that we were both from poor backgrounds, so didn’t get away much when we were kids. In fact the only holidays George, Bernard and I had were when Mum and Dad used to take us down to Margate to stay with my Auntie Mary and Uncle Jim.

  I remember the donkey-walks man, a wizened little guy who wore a bowler hat and big overcoat regardless of the weather. He looked, dare I say, donkey’s years old and he used to let us lead his docile animals from the Margate Dreamland amusement park to the beach. We’d make a couple of bob, then go and spend it on sweets and in Dreamland, which back then was one of the biggest amusement parks in the country. George and I used to love going on the big dipper and would bash each other all over the shop on the bumper cars.

  The first holiday Albina and I went on – not counting our honeymoon – was a disaster. We went on our first and last cruise. Albina had never even been on a boat before, so I guess I was a bit unwise to book a four-week tour of the French West Indies. We went on a French cruiser, L’Antilles, which I’d been told was one of the most luxurious ships afloat. Almost as soon as my lovely Albina stepped aboard this floating palace she complained of feeling queasy – and I don’t think her confidence was improved when she saw the crew nailing all the furniture to the deck. They’d had a warning of an approaching storm, but didn’t share the information with us.