Nigel Benn

by Nigel Benn

  We’d go down nearly every day to his office at Tower Bridge. It was a sumptuous loft conversion in black and pine and he’d lean back in his leather chair with the air of somebody very important. Ambrose had about three or four employees: Natalia, Georgiana, Tony and Jackie. Natalia thought the sun shone from his backside. She, like him, had more bullshit than anybody I had ever come across. She tried to emulate Ambrose and also covered up for him. Like them, I thought he was God.

  It was only later that I asked myself: ‘How come Ambrose is the one with two Mercedes and a large house in Wanstead with a swimming pool and gardeners, when I’m the one taking the punches and all I’ve got is a three-bedroom terrace?’

  Ambrose would make me laugh at the things he came out with and his bare-faced cheek was incredible. He would tell a bank manager of 20 years’ standing how to do his job. It seemed like he knew everything about business and I was impressed then, and still am now, with his flair. His wife Jennifer, however, was not my cup of tea. I felt she was less down-to-earth than I was. I had no pretensions but Ambrose would believe his own hype. He got me a lot of press coverage. At the same time, however, he was building his own platform.

  Frank Warren was furious that Ambrose had become involved with me. He warned me, ‘Walk out on me and you won’t find it so easy to get good fights.’ There was no love lost between us in those days. Frank was particularly angry that I had pulled out of the open-air show at Luton in June 1988 where Barry McGuigan topped the bill.

  My fight with Eddie Hall was to be the chief support bout and a lot of people had bought tickets to see me. Warren’s plans for me to fight in Las Vegas the following month, as chief support for the world middleweight fight between Frank Tate and Michael Nunn, had also fallen through and, once again, I wanted more attention.

  I was seriously considering quitting Britain for America at this time because I was attracting a lot of flak from all quarters. It seemed that, having achieved some success, people were now jealous of that and were gunning for me. Britain appeared much more comfortable with failures like Eddie the Eagle than with successes like Nigel Benn.

  My former manager, Burt McCarthy, from whom Warren had taken over, said my career could be ruined by my walk-out.

  Frank, no stranger to courts, immediately issued writs and said I was being misled by my advisers. He said, ‘The people who are telling him what to do are a joke. Nigel is being advised by a bunch of half-wits and I will be serving writs on everyone involved. He has broken his contract by not going through with this fight. I know he’s had a lot of publicity but he must keep his feet on the ground. He’s missed a golden opportunity in front of American television. He can’t sign contracts and then walk out on them just because he feels like it. I’m not going to let him renege on a contract. It’s a matter of principle and I’m not going to give in over this.’

  Frank insisted that our contract had more than two years seven months to run, with a further three-year option, and vowed he would enforce it. He won a High Court battle stopping me from signing a contract with Mendy pending further legal action.

  In the meantime, however, I had also sued Frank. My writ disputed the validity of his management agreement. I then went back to court and won the battle to discharge the injunction ordering Mendy not to interfere in the contractual relationship between Warren and me.

  Another weapon Frank tried to use at the time was the British Boxing Board of Control (BBBC), for whom I did not have any time then or now. They would not license Mendy and I was even threatened with losing my licence and being stripped of my Commonwealth championship if I had dealings with him. Later, Ambrose devised a plan of revenge which I carried out. I tore up my British boxing licence on television.

  I also let it be known at the time that I no longer wanted to fight cadavers in the ring. I wanted real fighters like Herol Graham, Michael Watson and Johnny Melfah. While this was going on, Barry Hearn held talks with me about the prospect of teaming up.

  I was angry over the whole affair. It was getting nasty and got very close to a punch-up between me and Frank. He didn’t own me. Nobody owns me. At one point, I felt like going round and working him over and I guess he felt the same about me.

  Because of the bust-up, I did not fight for nearly five months. On 12 September 1988, Mr Justice Pill lifted the injunction stopping Mendy from acting for me. That left me free to box under my own management and I stepped into the ring with Anthony Logan at the Albert Hall on 26 October to defend my Commonwealth middleweight championship.

  For some inexplicable reason, TV stations did not want to cover the event which was surprising considering how much they had plugged my earlier fights. We were assured that it had nothing to do with my TV walk-out from the Luton bout when I split with Frank. Promoter Mike Barrett who offered the rights was turned down flat. Mike’s co-promoters for the fight were Terry Marsh and Frank Maloney.

  Both the BBC and ITV denied it was a deliberate blackout but as it turns out, by not putting it on they deprived fans of an exciting match. I was convinced that Frank, Barry Hearn and Mickey Duff were able to call the shots over TV coverage, and they certainly weren’t able to do much for me then.

  Logan had had just over two years’ professional experience and had scored 14 wins in 16 bouts. He lost to David Noel of Trinidad before our fight and, until then, held a number 18 rating from the WBC. It was also Logan’s first defence of his Continental Americas title which he had won five months earlier when he beat Argentinian Ramon Abeldano in Trinidad. He was also a good puncher and had had five first-round wins between November 1987 and February of the next year.

  As far as I was concerned, Logan was the ugliest, most horrible opponent I could wish for. He was a right mouthy fucker — he kept going on about how he was going to bash me up. I detested him. I thought he was a horrible, horrible person. I had no respect for him and just fought to get rid of this man. As part of his pre-match hype, he said the opponents I had beaten were garbage. If that was the case, I was determined to add his remains to the scrap heap.

  The Royal Albert Hall was packed. Logan had wound me up something rotten and I was trying to knock him out to teach him a lesson. But he caught me, crash, bang, wallop on the chin and over I went. I was up by the count of one and he was catching me with a lot of punches. He hit me 22 times. A lot of people do that but then forget their own defence. I thought, if you hit me 22 times and can’t knock me out, it must be ta-ta to you.

  I threw a left and saw him screwing up his face. All of a sudden he was the one on the canvas, in spite of all those punches he’d thrown at me. Out, mate! His eyes were rolling in his head and his mouth was open like a stunned fish. That hit did it for him. He wobbled up and the crowd went whooping mad with delight. Many people had doubted me up until then and, even afterwards, were saying mine was a lucky punch but I was going for it. It wasn’t lucky. When they go, they go!

  Dad and Mum had always come to my fights. Dad wouldn’t miss a single one, ever since I had partly blamed him for losing to Rod Douglas in our first amateur fight. I had told Dad that if he’d been there, I would have beaten Douglas both times. Dad told me, ‘I didn’t know how serious you were. If you want to go into boxing you need to go into it 100 per cent. Not 95. If you’re really serious, I will be there for every fight.’ And he was. They were all very proud of me and I was happy that my parents both came to watch. After Logan, however, we banned Mum from further bouts.

  Dad tells the story better than me because he was right there next to Mum. He said, ‘We were all keen to see this fight. It was like a comeback fight after Nigel’s problems with Frank Warren. Mum had settled down expecting Nigel to do his normal thing — which was to hit the other person and not get hit much himself.

  ‘Instead, he went down in the first round and Mum wasn’t pleased. Not at all. She kept looking at him and turning to me. In the second round, Nigel took all those punches without throwing one back at first and Mum decided she’d had enough. “Stop the
fight,” she demanded. I told her to sit down. She wouldn’t. She yelled out, “Stop that man hitting my son.” We were at the ringside and there she was ordering me to get in the ring and break up the fight!

  ‘Fortunately, Nigel did the business and knocked out Logan before she had a chance to finish the fight spectacularly herself. I then turned to her and said, “See, your son has just knocked out somebody else’s son. What do you want me to do now?” I told her, “You’re not coming back no more.”’

  It felt really good to put Logan down, but if I’m honest I can’t say I was particularly proud of my performance. It turned into more of a street fight than a boxing match — two big guys brawling because they didn’t like each other much. I completely flipped, and afterwards Brian Lynch, my trainer, told me, ‘If you fight like that again, I’m finished with you.’ Man, he was mad!

  After the fight, Frank Warren wanted to make up with me and start afresh but there was no way I’d agree to it. Ambrose was firmly entrenched as my mentor. Warren said he only had my interests at heart and urged that he didn’t want to see me go the way of John Conteh. He said of me: ‘He is in danger of making the same mistakes that wrecked John Conteh’s career. He is trying to go too fast, too soon … he needs my help.’ Frank went on to deny that, apart from one or two exceptions, he’d only got stiffs for me to fight and claimed I was fighting proper people and was being paid more money than any boxer at the same stage of my career.

  Needless to say, his arguments failed to convince me then, although there is no doubt that he is now the number-one man in boxing in Britain.

  My next opponent was David Noel of Trinidad. We were scheduled to fight at Crystal Palace on 10 December. He’d beaten Logan on points over 12 rounds and boasted how he’d never been knocked down during his 20 fights. Of his 35 contests, he had lost only four. He was now challenging me for my Commonwealth middleweight crown. I thought it would be another humdinger of a fight, but he got bashed up good. Real good. I thought he’d last at least six rounds. He was out in one.

  I was now one step closer to fighting Michael Watson and getting my biggest purse ever: £150,000. I had challenged Herol Graham to a bout but nothing came of it. Everything seemed at last to be going well for me. I was happy to have Ambrose and my purse had increased enormously and was now set to multiply many times more. My social life was also becoming more hectic. I had a lot of celebrating to do in the little time between fights and that was an important part of my life. I didn’t want to blow my money like a lot of boxers do but then I didn’t want to be the richest man in the graveyard either. I wanted to enjoy my money. I had a small circle of close mates and a large circle of hangers-on. When I was not training, it was party time.

  10

  THE ORGY

  Rolex Ray could talk his way into anywhere. He’s blond, good looking and smooth as silk. He also happens to be rich. We met at the Berkeley Square ball and were introduced by Ambrose. I’d seen Ray around before then, however, because we liked the same music and clubs. Money was never an object with Ray. Like me, he was an Essex lad and since meeting, he’s become one of my best mates. We shared a lot in common and found that we’d been to the same clubs in Ilford, such as Lacy Ladies, the Mocca and Dagenham Town Hall.

  We called him Rolex Ray because he dealt in jewellery and specialised in genuine, second-hand, gold Rolex and Cartier watches at reasonable prices. I bought my diamond-studded gold Cartier from him.

  With my busy fight schedule and training, Ray was a little concerned that I had been working too hard and not having enough fun so he organised an outing for us. ‘I want to take you to a party, Nige,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be very special.’

  We drove from Ilford to a huge detached house in the Surrey stockbroker belt, arriving early in the evening. It was a warm summer’s night. I didn’t know what to expect because Ray was keeping that a surprise. We hardly found space to park with all the expensive motors parked haphazardly in the grounds and on the roadside adjoining the property — Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, Jaguars and Daimlers littered the driveway. Some had chauffeurs who had made themselves comfortable on the back seats with books and thermos flasks and were prepared for a long night’s wait. Ray either knew somebody there or chatted up the doorman and we were whisked inside.

  The sight that met my eyes was unbelievable. I had never ever seen anything like it before. A mass orgy had been staged with an invitation list that read like a page from Who’s Who. There were bankers, doctors, actors, well-known personalities and members of the aristocracy. What they all seemed to have in common was wealth. Those women who still had their clothes on were beautifully and expensively dressed. One lady reminded me of the actress Lesley Ann Down, though she clearly wasn’t — she was exquisite. Among show business personalities were top TV actors whose faces I had seen on some of the most popular series.

  This was dream time for me. I was an ordinary lad from east London — Essex boy from Ilford meets high society in deepest Surrey. It might as well have been outer Mongolia as far as I was concerned. It was a total culture shock. So this was how the rich lived!

  Ray had been to three or four orgies before so I looked to him for guidance. The owner of the house was in the porn movie business and 80 per cent of the guests were married couples. Everyone had to come as a couple, otherwise they would not be admitted. We were the exception. Ray had got us in on who I was. The house had six bedrooms and the host had locked every single window, bolted them and taken away the keys. All doors had been taken off their hinges on the top floor and, instead of beds, four-inch-thick foam covered the floors and became one giant mattress.

  Despite the fact that it was midsummer, the central heating had been turned on full, making it unbearably hot to keep your clothes on. A lot of the women were outrageously dressed. Stockings, suspenders, chains attached to nipples, black Gestapo jack-boots and tiny maids’ outfits. There was a dress to fulfil every fantasy and a willingness by partygoers to make the fantasy a reality.

  No pressure was put on anybody to join in. You could be a voyeur or participant, whatever you wanted. Downstairs, there was a bar and DJ and disco which looked just like a normal party. But upstairs — that was something else.

  Ray said, ‘Come on, Nige, let’s get in there.’ That was his cue for stripping down to our G-strings and dancing in the disco. We were the first to strip off and then everybody joined in. Ray always takes the mick out of me when it comes to taking off my clothes. He says I can’t wait to show myself off in my G-string and claims I’m a Chippendale at heart. That’s not true. However, with all the training I do, my body is in good shape. We were the catalyst the group was waiting for. Everybody began following our example by dressing down, some to their G-strings, others went totally nude.

  I really think I’m much better in a one-to-one relationship, or in a threesome, than with so many people. It was too much. There were so many beautiful women, hair immaculate, bedecked in jewels, entirely naked and begging you — or their husbands begging you on their wives’ behalf — to make love to them. It blew my mind. I couldn’t believe it was so open. I watched, a little shocked, as one girl made love with three men who catered to her every fantasy. She was astride one man, another was leaping doggy-fashion on to her, and a third was kneeling in front of her while she performed oral sex on him.

  I was a bit put off when I saw a man making oral love to a woman and a third party came with a bottle of champagne which he poured over her private parts saying, ‘That’s to improve the flavour.’ Wives were making love to each other watched by their husbands. It was a total, total shock. It’s not that I’m prudish but I was only about 24 and this was the first time I had seen it done in public. A couple of girls came to Ray and me and offered us oral sex and later the Lesley Ann Down lookalike asked me to make love to her.

  ‘Not here,’ I said. ‘No way.’

  Had she been willing to come to our stretch limousine, it might have been another matter but I wasn’t going to
perform in front of all those people. I didn’t fancy 20 sets of eyes, moving like yo-yos, watching my bobbing backside in this public arena.

  Some time during the evening, an old couple approached us. He was about 70 and his wife 60. Ray opened the lady’s blouse and asked, ‘What have you got in there, then?’ I was giggling and laughing and telling him not to do it. But it must have turned her husband on because he took hold of his wife’s hand and pushed it on to my nuts and asked her if she fancied a bit of black. I said, ‘No chance! I ain’t doing that, and if that old bastard does that again I’ll break her finger and flatten her husband’s bald head!’

  But it was all said with a laugh. In the meantime, I was followed around by another beautiful lady, watched in the background by her husband. I thought if my wife got up to this sort of thing, I would chin the guy and her as well.

  One of Ray’s mates, who’d come there with a couple of girls, then played a joke on his chauffeur. The girls were sent out to chat up the driver and sneak him into the orgy. The chauffeur had been told to stay well clear of the house but the temptation offered by two mini-skirted, bra-less beauties with breasts hanging out of skimpy tops and the air thick with promise was too much.

  Led by the giggling seductresses, he was taken into the house by the back door and brought to a small downstairs room which had a guest bed. The girls undressed him in no time at all and then chained him naked to the bed. Then they left him there and, five minutes later, his boss walked in pretending he didn’t know anything about it and gave him a right bollocking for daring to come inside. Everyone witnessing the poor guy’s dilemma was in fits of laughter but the poor man was scared witless and totally helpless, unable even to cover up his nakedness which now embarrassed him.