Suddenly, in the middle of our first night on board, the storm struck and we were thrown from our beds as the ship started to rock and roll. For the next five days poor Albina was as sick as a dog, with a green face. Desperate for dry land, we finally escaped and booked into a hotel that didn’t move. Albina had to admit to being the worst sailor ever and just looking at the water used to make her feel seasick. There were times when we would have to make the short hop across the Channel and the captain of the ferry used to let her lie down in his cabin. I was offered dozens of free cruises, with me in a sort of meeting and greeting role, but I turned them all down. I wasn’t going anywhere without my Albina.
When Henry Marco and John Pietro were growing up we had some super holidays at the Hotel Dona Filipa, on the Algarve. It is right beside both the Vale do Lobo golf course and the sea, so all the family were happy. The boys would spend their days on the beach, Albina sunbathed and I played golf. Paradise! I often used to drive down through Europe and the best drive was in my Jensen Interceptor, one of the most attractive cars I ever owned – I used to really get my foot down with it. Thank goodness Albina didn’t suffer carsickness.
Whenever Albina and I decided on a holiday, I used to get her mad by insisting there had to be a golf course view from the hotel window. Nothing better than to be able to see a golf course from the bedroom when you get up first thing in the morning.
I’ve stayed at some fantastic courses, but Gleneagles up in Scotland and one of the venues for the British Open has to be the best. There’s no place on earth quite like it. The bathrooms are as big as the bedrooms – and they had huge baths in which even I could lie stretched out. In most hotel baths I have my knees up under my chin, but this was sheer luxury.
We’ve made some wonderful friends playing golf there, including Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, when we took part in a pro-am. They were a bundle of laughs, and to make the break at Gleneagles even better, our bill was paid by the tournament organisers.
One of our most memorable holidays was a safari in Kenya. We stayed at Treetops, in the heart of the jungle. This was where Princess Elizabeth was staying in 1952 when she learned of her father’s death and that she was the new monarch. I recall that our room had a trunk growing up through the middle of it. Albina was concerned that a monkey or something might climb up it in the middle of the night, but I told her that we were the only wild animals there.
We went on that holiday with our good friends Bobby Charlton and his wife Norma. Our safari guide said: ‘If there’s a kill, do you want to see it?’ It sounded a bit gruesome but we agreed we were up for it, Albina and Norma with some trepidation. We got a call at 4 a.m. and drove deep into the bush. There, just a few yards in front of us, was a big huddle of about fifteen or more bloodied lions. They’d just killed a buffalo and were sleeping it off. We had just missed the massacre, thank goodness. I suppose that’s nature, but I’d seen enough blood in boxing, thank you very much.
Gradually the lions started to wake up, one by one, in what could have been a scene from The Jungle Book and the young lionesses kissed and nuzzled their mother before making their way down to the water. It was the most amazing sight. Bobby was banging off right, left and centre with his camera, which was just as well as I – big dummy – had left our camera in the hotel.
Albina is at her most relaxed and happy when we visit Boccacci, the village near Parma in northern Italy where she grew up. It feels like a second home to me, yet it’s very different to the Italy I used to visit with George at the end of each boxing season. Then, we’d stay in a top hotel, noshing first-class food in stunning surroundings. But on my honeymoon I was introduced to another side of Italy and spent two weeks in a house without electricity, gas or running water. We managed to slip in a bit of luxury, too, by going to Diano Marino on the Italian Riviera for a wonderful week alone.
It was quite an eye-opener going to Boccacci for the first time. The terrain on the way to the village in the foothills of the Apennine mountain range was so rugged that we had to leave the car about two miles away, load our luggage onto a wooden sleigh and walk behind the two cows that pulled it along. I asked myself several times what I was doing trudging up a mountain in ninety-degree heat. But once we got there, the food and the warm welcome from Albina’s family made it all worthwhile.
If I had to choose my favourite place, it’s Penina on the Algarve. That’s where I used to hold my annual golf classic tournament, in partnership with the comedian Mike Reid, on a course designed by the legendary Sir Henry Cotton. It was supposed to be ‘work’, but they were the best holidays we could ever imagine. And what made it so satisfying is that we raised thousands of pounds for deserving causes. All that and sunshine too. It doesn’t get better than that.
Retirement wasn’t all fun and laughter, though. In 1991 a huge black cloud dropped on the Coopers, when much of the fortune Henry had worked so hard to earn was wiped out in the infamous Lloyd’s Names scandal that followed in the wake of the 1987 stock market crash.
Henry had been an underwriting syndicate member since hanging up his gloves after being advised to invest his money by his good friend, insurance broker Charles St George. He got some nice little tickles from it, but unbeknown to its thousands of members, Lloyd’s was in huge financial trouble. When the crash came, it meant all those who had committed themselves to unlimited liability were responsible for the colossal Lloyd’s debts.
Many members had to sell their prize assets, including their houses, to meet the sudden king-size debt. It looked as if the Coopers were going to lose the superb six-bedroom home they had moved to in an exclusive part of Hendon. When the story broke, Jimmy Tarbuck was one of the first on the phone offering financial help. Henry was deeply moved by the gesture from a true friend, but politely refused. He was on the canvas and was going to get himself up.
Henry decided the only way out of the crisis was to sell the three Lonsdale Belts he had won, literally with blood, sweat and a few tears.
That was the worst and most worrying period of our lives. The shock that a company like Lloyd’s could go under was just beyond belief. Albina was wonderful and kept her nerve better than me; thanks to her we both adopted the attitude that ‘what’s meant to be, will be’. We were lucky that we had our faith to keep us strong; there were a lot worse off than us.
We had been through a similar thing with the greengrocer’s shop, but this was a thousand times worse. It looked as if we were going to lose our beautiful house for a while, but once I got my head around it I decided the Belts would have to go. I was hoping to pass them on to Henry Marco and John Pietro, for them to ultimately pass on to their children. But it wasn’t meant to be.
A lot of good people were wiped out by the Lloyd’s crash, so we were more fortunate than most in that we had the Belts to help get us out of trouble. The auctioneers reckoned they would fetch a hundred grand, but I stupidly allowed myself to be talked into putting them up for auction in Kent, when it was obvious the big punters were in London. They went for £42,000, which was very disappointing, but at least it got us off the hook. And I don’t mean that as anything of a pun: this was no laughing matter.
Albina, bless her, convinced me that it was time to let the house go. Our boys had both got married, so we were rattling around. We downsized to a nice coach house in a lovely part of Kent and found real happiness and contentment there.
There are a lot of things I could say about that Lloyd’s business but I’m best off keeping my mouth shut. We got away lightly compared to some. People who had gone into it thinking it was as safe as the Bank of England lost everything they had. They were sucked into it by grasping sales people, who knew it could all go to pot. It was fraudulent and outrageous. A lot of victims tried to fight Lloyd’s in court, but I couldn’t be bothered with all that. As far as I was concerned, it was blood under the bridge.
The greengrocer’s, the City. What did I know about them? I had been taken to the cleaners in worlds that were foreign to me.
The advice I always pass on to my boys is that if you’re going to risk any money, only do it in areas that you know. There are a lot of sharks out there and they had bitten me where it hurts. In the wallet.
As if following a knockout defeat in the boxing ring, Henry picked himself up, dusted himself off and got on with his life, increasing his celebrity appearance work and after-dinner speeches. His self-assessment of his speeches: ‘I’m not exactly Oscar Wilde but I just try to be myself and tell them a few inside stories and answer their questions. No good worrying about me grammar. Should have done that at school! My speeches seem to go down well, yeah.’
He somehow managed to give even more of his energy to helping those in need. I have been around sportsmen all my working life – fifty-five years and counting – and have known few who could match his spirit of generosity. It was almost as if supporting those down on their luck was a calling. The time he gave to boosting worthy causes was just unbelievable and among his favourite charities was the Grand Order of Water Rats, which has a huge membership of major showbusiness luminaries. He had a year as King Rat, with the Duke of Edinburgh among his loyal servants.
Henry’s charity work, particularly on behalf of underprivileged children, was recognised by the Pope, who bestowed upon him the Papal Knighthood of St Gregory. Cardinal Basil Hume, a self-confessed boxing fan, presented it to Henry in a moving ceremony in Westminster Cathedral, with Albina in tears of joy and pride.
Another knighthood was on its way, and this time it would mean an extra title in the Cooper household: Lady Albina Cooper, which was appropriate for everybody’s favourite lady.
ROUND 14
ARISE SIR HENRY
The New Millennium dawned with the proudest day of Henry’s life. In the New Year’s Honours List for 2000 it was announced that he was to be knighted by the Queen. The boy from the Bellingham council estate had come a long, long way.
He was the first boxer ever knighted, the honour being given for his services to boxing coupled with his extraordinary efforts in fundraising charity work. As he knelt before the Queen for the ancient shoulder -touching sword ceremony, Henry admitted to mixed emotions:
I was busting with pride, but just wished my old mum and dad and dear old Jim Wicks had been there to share the moment. We were just ordinary people, and here I was kneeling before the Queen of England and being told, ‘Arise Sir Henry’. Blimey, that was something very, very special.
You can imagine the joy and the laughs Albina and I had when I was first invited to become a knight. Sir Henry and Lady Albina Cooper. Me from the Bellingham council estate, Albina from peasant farming stock. Albina kept on saying how proud she was of me, but I was lucky to be able to share it with her. Henry Marco and John Pietro were, well, as pleased as punch.
What gave me tremendous satisfaction is that I got the knighthood as much for my charity work as my boxing. I don’t want this to sound over the top, but I’ve always wanted to try to give something back. I’ve had a great life and have been very fortunate to be always surrounded by a loving family and loyal friends so I am entitled to feel grateful and help those who have not had my good luck.
I felt very humbled by the knighthood and was determined to make it work for me in my appearances for charity. It meant I had a little more pulling power for fundraising and I started to work more for wonderful organisations like the Lord’s Taverners and the Prince’s Trust. In fact, one of the first things I got was an invitation from Prince Charles to attend his Night of Knights dinner at the Royal Lancaster Hotel in aid of his Trust. I was delighted to be in the company of other sporting knights like Sir Bobby Charlton, Sir Roger Bannister and Sir Gary Sobers, all idols of mine from way back.
If my knighthood had come a few months earlier I would have had to hobble towards the Queen! I had managed to get bitten on my ankle by a snake – an adder – while playing golf on a course in Buckinghamshire. I thought nothing of it until several weeks later, when the ankle suddenly blew up to three times its usual size. I was in agony and had to have all sorts of medication and treatment. That bloody adder had apparently planted eggs in my ankle. Jimmy Tarbuck said I should have conceded the hole for ‘adding’ to my score. It was more painful than anything I had known in boxing.
The knighthood was universally acclaimed and the Cooper home inundated with congratulatory messages from around the world; it took Lady Albina Cooper and Patsy Martin weeks to reply to them all. Muhammad Ali ordered a fax to be sent by one of his entourage, who helped him through times of poor health: ‘Guess this makes YOU the greatest, Sir Henry.’
Now in his sixty-seventh year, Henry showed no signs of relaxing his relentless drive to raise money for good causes. If anything, the knighthood increased the demands on his time and energy. He was still a crowd-puller on the commercial front and his ‘Flu Jab’ TV and poster campaign was responsible for hundreds of thousands of senior citizens signing up for the NHS battle against influenza.
The older he got, the more Henry started to distance himself from boxing. He used to put himself in the front line in defence of the sport and once had a headline-hitting exchange with Baroness Edith Summerskill, who for many years was the leading spokesperson for abolitionists who wanted the sport banned.
They came face to face in a live (and lively) debate on television and the Baroness, to underscore the point that punches can damage, leaned forward and said: ‘Mr Cooper, have you looked in the mirror and seen the state of your nose?’
Henry threw an instant verbal counter punch with all the sweet timing of his favourite left hook: ‘Well, have you had a butcher’s at yours, Baroness? Boxing’s my excuse. What’s yours?’
It was a full minute before the audience stopped laughing and they could resume the debate and from that moment on there was only one winner.
Henry – Sir Henry – had taken over the Barrington Dalby role as inter-round summariser on BBC radio’s coverage of boxing, but he eventually had to give it up because he could no longer maintain the pretence that he was enjoying the job. He was wise enough to recognise he was becoming the Victor Meldrew of boxing commentaries, moaning as much about the fight game as Freddie Trueman was about modern cricket on Test Match Special. His final broadcast was the night Frank Bruno took the WBC world heavyweight title from Oliver McCall at Wembley. Henry had never been a fan of Bruno the boxer, much as he liked him as Bruno the man; his opinion was that Bruno was a stiff, manufactured fighter rather than a relaxed natural one and that Oliver McCall, from whom Bruno took the title, was one of the most mediocre champions he had ever seen.
I put the words into Bruno’s mouth for much of his career as his spin-doctor and it led to my one sharp exchange with Henry, after I’d fed Frank a line about the old heavyweights not being able to live with the modern champions because they were little more than cruiserweights. Henry pulled me up on it and told me: ‘You’re putting words into the mouth of a dummy.’
Good luck to Frank. He’s always been a dedicated professional and a good advertisement for how boxing can help change your life for the better. But if this is the standard of world championship boxing, I want no part of it. The game’s gone.
Suppose I can be accused of living in the past, but it’s become a farce. It is taking boxers longer to make their ring entrance than it is to fight. They’re coming up with all sorts of stupid gimmicks, like approaching the ring on a motorbike or a magic carpet, or through so much smoke that it’s like peering through one of those old London smogs.
I’ve always tried to be true to myself, and I found that I was telling porkies about boxers who would not have lived with the best of my time. Sorry to do the ‘in my day’ bit, but we used to have just eight world champions, one for each weight. Now there are something like eighty boxers claiming to be world champion, with four or five different alphabet versions of their title.
You will never hear me knock boxing. It has given me a good life and I enjoyed nearly every second of my career except when the old ref was countin
g over me. But the way it’s going, I can’t see the public being interested in it for much longer. These days kids are fighting for a world title after fewer than a dozen fights. It’s a nonsense. They have not learned their craft. Good luck to ’em, but I’m not going to sit at the mic and tell any more lies. The standard today is – apart from for a handful of exceptional fighters – just appalling.
As he moved into the autumn of his years, Henry was not blessed with the best of health. He suffered aggravating deafness, painful bouts of arthritis and gout – despite having been only a moderate drinker – and he had to have an operation on the left hand that had served him so well as a plasterer and a puncher. While hosting his annual Henry Cooper Golfing Classic at Muswell Hill in July 2006, he got the fright of his life when he suddenly struggled to breathe. Whipped off to hospital, he had a pacemaker fitted to control his heartbeat.
Just a month later, Henry and Albina drove all the way down to Dorset to join me in saying a final, fond farewell to Eileen, my lovely wife of forty-five years. What a man to make that effort so soon after such a shock to his system – there’s the true Henry Cooper for you. Jimmy Greaves was also at the funeral and Henry greeted him like a long-lost brother. ‘How you keeping, Jim?’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen you for yonks.’
Greavsie replied: ‘You silly sod, we did a show together last week.’ That was when we started to worry about Henry and his physical condition.
We were all concerned about his increasing frailty, none of us dreaming that it was the effervescent Albina who needed the attention. In the summer of 2008, the day after Henry had been diagnosed with having a heart defect, 71-year-old Albina died suddenly of a heart attack at home, almost certainly brought on by constant worrying about her beloved husband’s health.
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