How do you end up with a strip bar in your own house? It’s easier than you might imagine.
I built my house up in the green hills high above Kingston from scratch, and there was nothing in the initial plans for a basement. Home cinema, yes, wood-panelled office, yes, pool level, pool table and the nine bedrooms, including one for my dad, one for Mum and spares for the siblings and any of the gang needing it – Kevin Murray, Popeye, whoever requires a roof and plush mattress. No more five to a room, no more sleeping on concrete floors.
Then the contractor said we shouldn’t waste the space down below, that we could dig out two extra rooms. So then I started thinking, what should I do with these bonus rooms?
Initially they were bedrooms. That just felt a little tame, so one became a gym. And then the other one of them had a peculiar set-up that felt it needed something else: a king-sized bed, and then a shelved platform in the rest of the room. It looked like the stage in a nightclub.
My first notion was to put in a barbershop – a barber’s chair surrounded by mirrors, so I could have my hair cut and be shaved in proper style. Then I was in there one evening, and talking with friends in the decorating business, and we looked at the stage and the bed and the space, and a thought popped up: a nice little strip club could just fit in there.
‘You want it, jus’ say the word.’
‘Okay, just do it.’
‘Yeah man, it’s done.’
So I left it to him, and he got everything organized, and then the work started with the mirrors and the pole in the centre of the stage, and when it turned out as perfect as it is, I walked in and, ‘Wow!’ Then he put some lighting in there, and some sound, and it looked the real deal.
There was one issue. At the time I was doing it I didn’t tell my girlfriend what was happening. She was in the house when it was being built, but no one was going to go down to the basement with all that building work going on, and it was locked up in between workmen coming and going, so the right time never came up. And then she went down there one day to use the gym with her friend, and the door was open and she just walked in.
I suppose I was expecting a reaction. It’s a strip bar in your boyfriend’s basement. Yet the two of them just sat there and carried on talking, as if they’ve walked into a bathroom or the garage. Nothing.
To this day she’s never said anything about it. She’s also never danced for me in there. I have no idea whether she likes it. I hope so. It’s a great strip bar.
I had guests christen it for me. If they want to be entertained, it’s their room. Entertained in there, sleep in there, have fun in there. One time I went down there, didn’t even know anyone was using it, stuck my head in and saw a friend having a good time with two other new friends. Shut the door, left them to their fun. Whatever happens in that room stays in that room.
And that’s how the strip club comes in, and it turned out really nice.
The swagger, or the attempt at swagger, starts early in Rollington Town. Across the streets kids will pull the dry twigs off a calabash tree, set light to one end and puff smoke through it. You don’t know what you’re doing but you want to do it, just as when you first get a taste of liquor.
The beverage of choice is Red Label wine, a Jamaican speciality that’s sickly sweet to an adult but perfect for the tender tongue, a little cinnamon kiss on it as well. The big kids can get it from Mr Lenny’s, and we’ll set up on the street and call it bleach – staying up late, staying up having fun. You pour it on ice, and you just want to drink more and more. ‘Dis taste goood, man!’
You bleach at night when your parents are elsewhere, out on the corner of St James and Portland Road, drinking, running jokes, talkin’ a lotta ting. One Boxing Day, aged 13, we stay up all night – me, John Murphy, Kevin, the usuals. We have some older friends who can go to the shops on Giltress Street, Lecky’s if Lenny isn’t serving, and buy it there with some Dragon stout. They’ll take the stout because in Kingston the gangster drinks stout, and they’ll leave the lightweights with the light stuff.
We think we are men. We think we’re doing what real men do. Drinking drinking, so easy with Red Label wine because it’s so sweet, and very, very strong, ready to creep up on you. We even have a contest to see who can drink it the fastest. And I’m in it, fancying my chances, and I’m drinking drinking, loving the taste, so sweet, and I’m all, ‘Mm-mmm! Taste good! Gimme more!’
The good times don’t last. First the mouth goes, then the head, then the stomach. I can feel something running up my stomach. I know I need to lie down, so I fight my way back to the house and lie down on the bedroom floor. Which seems to flip, because I vomit all over the room. I destroy my own wicket.
My mum and dad are both disgusted and delighted: ‘Yes, that’s what should happen to you!’ ‘Yes, you’re drinking dis an’ dat an’ you on da street . . .’
I am feeling so sick. I genuinely think it’s the end. When I’m not vomiting I’m asking, ‘I’m gonna die? Mum, I’m gonna die?’
And my father shakes his head: ‘Yes, you drink too much, an’ dis and dat . . .’
Just how families always are when you do something bad.
I vomit up the entire house. The most hurtful thing of all is that I can’t even make the pavement the next day. My legs and guts and head won’t allow me past the yard. And I can see everyone playing in the street, and I can’t go out there because I feel so dreadful. Man, so hurtful! Sick in the house by myself, everybody gone to play over Lucas, everybody playing cricket, and me mash-down proper.
Finally my father shows some sympathy. ‘Christopher? Where is hurting you? Where is hurting your body?’
I can’t even speak properly. ‘Hmm? Hmm?’ I still think I’m going to die.
‘Christopher? Where is hurting your body?’
And some of the guys can hear my father, because the street is so close to the house, and Lucas is so close to the house. So the next morning, when I’m finally back on my feet and back out at Lucas, they tease me all the day. ‘Christopher? Where is hurting you? Hmm? Hmm?’
I’ve never drunk Red Label since. Every time I look at a bottle I remember. I don’t fool around it from that day, because I remember the damage. I can’t forget the damage.
*
You grow and you learn. The kid becomes a man. The man becomes World Boss.
There is so much in common between Britain and Jamaica, but culture also divides. You can’t big yourself up in the UK. Sportsmen there don’t like to take the credit for their skills. They just play it off in a smart way. Within themselves they know they’re mighty good, but they’re scared of being called a cocky person.
Not in Jamaica. Usain is not shy to celebrate it, and neither am I. I’ll happily tell you with a straight face that I’m great. Look at it how you want, but I’m the best. Legend. World Boss.
It came from a dancehall artist called Vybz Kartel, a tough kid from Waterford, a place outside Kingston rough enough to get the nickname Gaza. One of the biggest artists in Jamaica but a bad man. He’s currently doing life, his murder trial the longest in the country’s history. In better days he had a song and gesture that everyone loved, that everyone into dancehall music in Jamaica gravitated towards: ‘Why Pree (World Boss)’.
He sings it Worl’ Baass. He is the World Boss of music. And so it spreads. Usain is the World Boss of athletics. And Chris Gayle is the World Boss of cricket. There’s only three World Boss in Jamaica. It’s probably enough.
The thing about nicknames is that you have to back them up. Viv Richards was the Master Blaster, and he showed you every time. Me? I’ve played in more places than anyone else. Sixteen teams, seven countries, six continents. I’m the boss of the world.
But it takes me time.
A year after my Test debut, I still haven’t made a century. I’ve made some fifties, and I’m given some bowlers a taste of my bat, but I’ve also been schooled by some of the best. Coming up against Pakistan in my third Test, I walk out to face Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis. You’re playing schoolboy cricket, you’re hearing about these guys, and now you’re up against them.
The air is different up here. The war is on. The challenges start now.
As a man who’s played 103 Tests, let me assure you that fast bowlers back in the day were more raw and more mean. Not necessarily as consistently flat-out, but quick and nasty. Our West Indies legends were of course truly fearsome. If you watch Wes Hall, he looks wild – like an animal coming in at you and letting it go. Andy Roberts, sliding in silently. Sylvester Clarke, mean and nasty. If you want to know fear, watch the clips of Michael Holding bowling to a 42-year-old Brian Close at Old Trafford in 1976. When he spears him with a short one into the ribs it’s like watching someone shooting a giraffe. Imagine the England dressing-room in that match. Nobody can move. Where’s that fool who made the ‘grovel’ comment? You go out there and defend yourself with a bald head and sticking-plaster on your elbow!
Wasim and Waqar are just as quick and maybe more cunning. Bending them away from me outside off, tempting the drives and pushes, setting me up for the one nipping back. You’re facing two of the best in the world, and you’re just a youngster coming in.
You have to relish it. This is your education, and because you are an obsessive student you find it fascinating as well as thrilling. How’s he doing that? Where’s the next one going? How can I find a gap in his armour to strike back?
You learn and you develop, and you believe the moment will come.
We are back against Zimbabwe, this time on their home soil in Bulawayo, their attack led again by Heath Streak, 16 months after he ended my first Test match with that golden duck. The good news is that at least Sherwin Campbell isn’t around to run me out. This time I’m walking out with Daren Ganga, up there for me with Leon Garrick and Wavell Hinds as my favourite opening partners. In my West Indies career I will have more than 20 different partners, a roulette wheel to contrast with the immovable and legendary pairing of Gordon Greenidge and Dessie Haynes, but Daren and I mesh beautifully. He takes his time, I go on the attack, and so it is again on this July day.
They bat first and make 155, but the wicket is flat-track. There are runs in it, and from the first swing and kiss of ball on bat I feel in control. My fifty comes up off 68 balls; after we go unbeaten to the close, we see off the fiery first hour of the second day from Streak and start to build.
For once I don’t feel in a rush. My scoring rate is slowing, but the scoreboard keeps turning over. Nerves appear for the first time as the century approaches, and my Lucas schooling kicks in again: why stop at 100? Batting is an occupation as well as an assault.
Jus’ breathe. Define yourself, what you want to do. Breathe an’ let the stress an’ anger go.
I can’t remember the stroke that takes me to 100. I am thinking like a true son of Lucas: be grateful and thankful, but keep batting. There is plenty of time left in the game. Make the best use of the magic. Keep batting and batting.
It ends on 175. Streak has me again, but this time I have had him first. Not bad for a maiden Test century, even if it’s not the 277 that Brian Lara made with his first or the 365 that Sir Garfield conjured up. But it sets us up for an innings victory, and we toast it until late in the night.
Even a World Boss needs to grow into his role, and age-group cricket is the perfect place to experiment. It teaches you to be creative.
At a tournament in Trinidad it rains all week. Match after match is cancelled, so night after night becomes big. We break every curfew and we beat every security man the manager puts on the hotel door. You’d think he’d learn that we’re climbing through windows rather than using the door, but it’s like having your grandfather fielding at slip: him cyaan catch nobady.
We stand outside the clubs to watch the ladies come in, nudging each other, eyes out on stalks – ‘Oooh! Look at dat . . .’ Inside we dance all night. Jamming, jamming.
The only problem is money. We don’t have any to start with, and despite selling some of our clothes to the Guyana team (you can’t get good-looking knock-off brands in Georgetown like you can in Kingston) we soon run out again. It’s not that the clubs are extortionate; it’s just that we’re in them so often and so long. Luckily the Guyanese lads come to our rescue again and offer to buy our bats. We’re not worried about crossing that particular bridge because it keeps raining and raining, right up to the point when we leave a nightclub one morning, everyone blinks and someone says, ‘Isn’t the sun shining?’
The organizers call a one-day tournament. We win it. Not World Boss yet but maybe deputy of a few fine lands.
The beach parties back home continue the tuition. On June weekends there are two parties in a day. Your week becomes a series of days you’re ticking off until the next one. On the beaches of Negril, way out west, the parties across August are even bigger, from Emancipation Day on 1 August to Independence Day on the 6th and beyond. For the boy from Kingston it’s a fresh world: clean sand and clean waves, big sound systems, DJs, bars and rum stalls, everybody dancing. The music will go high, cool down, crank up again, rumble in between, the DJs feeding off the crowd and the crowd feeding off the DJs’ cuts. There are good girls, there are bad girls. There are bikinis and bodies and sights you have never seen before everywhere you look. As a shy kid finding his feet you want to dance with every girl, wind it up ’ere an’ dere, especially after a few Hennessy. Get close, have fun. If it rains it’s even better, because it takes away some of the heat, cools you down so you can go longer.
When the season changes the parties keep coming. Pool parties, house parties, club parties. The shy boy is no more, at least until the next mood sweeps in. When I’m up, I’m the life of the party. I put it out there. Once I’m in the party, you know it’s a party with a capital P and a shaking sound system and bottles of rum and yo-ho-ho. So many parties, it’s hard to keep track.
Those are the freedoms you have as a youngster. You think you can do it all. You think you can burn the candle at both ends and set light to the middle too. Who needs candles when the sun is shining and the waves are crashing and Beenie Man and Vybz Kartel, Capleton and Baby Cham are on the sound system?
Then you play a rash shot, and another one. You get dropped from the team. You start to think a bit deeper. You slow down a bit, and cricket comes back into focus. You look within yourself and understand that whatever else you want, whatever other fun you might have, a cricketer is what you are. There are a lot of critics out there, and the only solution to silence them is to rack up the runs. You can still get away with a few things, and you have to, because that is also an essential part of who you are. And there will still be critics, because if you score some runs they’ll say you should still get more. At no stage can you satisfy everybody.
There’s a balance somewhere. It’s not always easy to find, and I can’t always tip-toe along it. The more intense it gets on the field, the more I need to free up and let go. The tougher the ordeal at the crease, the bigger the thirst for Appleton rum and Hennessy. You might not like it or be able to do it, but then you’re not me.
To this moment I love partying in England. If I’m travelling somewhere and I pass through London I’ll always make a stopover for a couple of nights to hit the clubs. On my first tour with the West Indies, back in 2000, I was still searching for the balance, still overwhelmed by what lay out there in the big bad world. I became familiar with local taxi companies; not only did they bring you back from the clubs and drop you at the hotel service entrance rather than the main door, they also came in handy for overtaking the team bus on the way to the ground after you’ve slept in.
After the Test at Old Trafford a few of the senior guys went out with me and Wavell Hinds, the young guns. It was more of a get-together rather than a party, and though there was an 11 p.m. curfew we got back just after midnight. The next day two letters were issued – one to me, one to Wavell – and one man is going to be fined: me. Nothing was said to the senior guys, and as a kid from upfront Rollington Town I had a clatter about it with the manager. Why just me? Yuh serious?
As World Boss I understand how to manage it now. It’s like pacing a long innings – you can still play your shots, but you have to leave a few alone as well. And when the half-volley and the gap in the field is there, you have to commit to it. Hard.
In India in the early days you can let the bat swing. Never be fooled into thinking India is too straitlaced. They love cricket, so when you ask the questions – Where’s the party? Where’s the girls? – they give you answers. Cricket opens doors, and when the doors open you see the girls, and the models, and the clubs that others do not see. Music? Don’t worry about the music. As a Jamaican you can dance. You just fit into the beat and get into it, dancing till your clothes are wet, dancing with the cheerleaders and the DJs and everyone dancing, staggering to your room ears ringing, 4 a.m., 5 a.m., and then you go out to bat and you’re still drunk.
You can still practise with big hangovers. Sometimes you get a big buzz of it, because you are sweating and there is still alcohol in your system. You get a buzz and a little energy off it, you run around all sharp sharp, you bat with freedom. And then when the heat hits you, you fall flat-out, and sleep all day like a baby. And you even can get away with it for a while, if you understand it won’t last, that’s it’s not a long-term solution.
But trust me. Wherever you go you can find the party, and with experience you find your balance too. I’ve had fun pretty much everywhere. There’s always a spot, no matter what city or continent. You just have to have contacts.
World Boss is fun in every way. And I’ve had a lot of fun, in all the areas. Because I’m the boss . . . I’m da baass of all baass. Universe Boss!