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Jemima Khan meets Nick Clegg: “I’m not a punchbag – I have feelings”

The NS guest editor Jemima Khan talks to the Liberal Democrat leader about life on the far side of power and what it’s like to be a cut-out.

Nick Clegg and I smile genially at each other across the table of a standard-class train carriage. He is on his way to his constituency in Sheffield to talk about manufacturing. Pale-faced, pale-eyed and so tired he appears taxidermied, he looks like he could do with a holiday, except he's just had one – skiing in Davos with his children as the Libyan crisis escalated (for which he was lambasted).

Nick Clegg is the Tim Henman of politics: a decent man for whom Cleggmania represented the peak of his career, his Henman Hill moment. Then he became the Deputy Prime Minister and, shortly after, an effigy.

The carefree, cloud-cuckoo days of opposition, when he had a platform and little criticism, are long gone. At last year's Liberal Democrat spring conference, a fresh-looking and ebullient Clegg had gesticulated and boomed: "We see the same old broken promises. No wonder people feel let down." A year on, he was less combative, more ambivalent. His many critics pointed to his own broken promises and let-down voters.

Clegg concedes that it has been a "very sharp transition". "Of course it has had a dramatic effect on how I'm perceived, the kind of dilemmas I have to face," he says. "I don't even pretend we can occupy the Lib Dem holier-than-thou, hands-entirely-clean-and-entirely-empty-type stance. No, we are getting our hands dirty, and inevitably and totally understandably we are being accused of being just like any other politicians."

His point – and it seems a fair one – is that the British public voted, no one party won and that coalition government, by definition, is a compromise. "A whole lot of things are happening that would just never in a month of Sundays have happened without the Lib Dems there," he says. The morning of our meeting, he claims to have "squeezed out of [George] Osborne" a promise of a green investment bank, not simply a fund. "We've done more on liberty and privacy," he adds, "in the past ten months than Labour did in the past 13 years."

All this has done little to dilute the vitriol of his opponents. John Prescott has likened him to Jedward, the risible and tuneless twins from The X Factor. Ed Miliband has called him "a tragic figure", one too toxic to share a platform with ahead of the referendum on the Alternative Vote. Clegg insists that none of this bothers him. "I see it exactly for what it is. [Ed] is a perfectly nice guy but he has a problem, which is that he's not in control of his own party, so he constantly has to keep his troops happy and he thinks that ranting and raving at me is the way to do it."

Since joining the government, and in particular since his U-turn on university tuition fees, Clegg has had dog mess posted through his door and been spat at in the street. It must upset him. "No, well look, I'm a human being, I'm not a punchbag – I've of course got feelings."

He pauses. "Actually, the curious thing is that the more you become a subject of admiration or loathing, the more you're examined under a microscope, the distance seems to open up between who you really are and the portrayals that people impose on you . . . I increasingly see these images of me, cardboard cut-outs that get ever more outlandish . . . One thing I've very quickly learned is that if you wake up every morning worrying about what's in the press, you would go completely and utterly potty."

After ten months in government, he has a guardedness that did not exist in the days when he told Piers Morgan he'd had roughly 30 lovers. These days he is tightly managed. I have already had a pre-interview briefing with one adviser, and now Clegg's version of Andy Coulson, who is sitting to his right, is busy taking written notes of our interview, as well as recording it. When Clegg gets sidetracked, he prompts him, head down, pen poised over notebook, deadpan: "You were talking about what you've achieved . . ."

Everyone seems painfully aware that my task as interviewer is to catch him out, to get him to say the wrong thing. Clegg's task, like all politicians, is to rattle off rhetoric, to be evasive and as uncontroversial as possible, and to fill up the tape with unquotable patter.

All of which makes interviewing him excruciating. He continues: "What we've achieved so far . . . I think just having a government with two parties in it is already such a big new thing. I know it has been born in a blaze of controversy because of the difficult economic decisions we've had to take . . . but if we're lucky, people will look back on it in 20 or 30 years' time as quite a normal thing in British politics that politicians can actually agree with each other from time to time.

“That in itself is quite big and radical. In the week or two leading up to the general election, every single newspaper was screaming from the headlines: 'A hung parliament will be a disaster, coalition politics will be a disaster. Nothing will get done.' And the extraordinary thing is that now we're being accused of almost exactly the reverse – of doing too much."

Of doing too much? Or of being too Tory? Clegg's dilemma is that, on the one hand, he is in danger of being seen as too close to David Cameron and the Conservatives, and losing credibility with his party and voters. On the other hand, he can't be too distant, because that would be damaging for the coalition and a gift for the opposition and the press, which is constantly looking for rifts.

Before the election, Clegg let it be known that he had turned down an invitation to dine with the Camerons at their home in Notting Hill. He wanted to maintain a distance. Perhaps wary of looking like he fits too easily into the port-swilling, waistcoat-wearing Bullingdon Club set, he is still keen to present Cameron as more working partner than friend.

“We don't regard each other as mates and actually I don't think it would be a particularly healthy thing if we tried to become personal mates," he says. "I don't think a coalition works unless you have a very careful balance between mutual respect and civility and also a certain hardness, as at the end of the day you are representing different views."

I've heard that they play tennis together. "No, no – well, er, I think we've played one game of tennis. Of course we meet from time to time but it's always basically to talk about what we're doing in government."

Who won?

“Ah no, that's a state secret," he jokes. (Cameron won.)

Earlier, at my pre-interview briefing, Clegg's adviser Richard Reeves, the former head of Demos, characterised being in the coalition as like being in a marriage – you both get to know instinctively which are the no-go areas.

Clegg concedes that there are "some areas where we flatly disagree" with the Tories, such as on Europe ("I think you can't make sense of this world unless you work together with other folk in the European neighbourhood") and taxation ("Our reflexes as Lib Dems are to try to give tax breaks to people on middle or lower incomes, whereas traditionally they are more interested in trickle-down economics"), but denies that there are "no-go areas". "Look, we're on completely opposite sides of the fence on the AV referendum."

He refuses to concede that signing the pledge to vote against an increase in university tuition fees before the election was a mistake. "That would be a cop-out. I did it. And I have a rather old-fashioned belief that you've got to stand by what you've done and take the consequences, good or bad." He insists that it was not one of his main manifesto priorities anyway. "I didn't even spend that much time campaigning on tuition fees."

Instead, he says, he spent "every single day and every single interview talking about the four things that were on the front page of the manifesto – namely the pupil premium, two and a half million quid for disadvantaged kids; changing the tax system, so you don't pay tax on your first £10,000; political reform; and sorting out the banks and rebalancing the economy."

That's all very well, but given that the Lib Dems are only ever likely to be in government as part of a coalition, how will he deal with pledges made in future election campaigns? Will there be pledges with caveats, depending on which party he clambers into bed with next? "I think that we need to be clearer about what are the really big, big priorities."

After his capitulation on tuition fees, there are many who now fear that nothing is sacred for the Lib Dems. He denies this. "If the Conservatives wanted to become as authoritarian as Blair and New Labour, I wouldn't have it – but it wouldn't happen, as it couldn't happen with us in [the coalition]."

Clegg is emphatic that he will not allow the Tories to disempower the Lib Dems' much-loved European Court of Human Rights. The problem with being in a coalition government is that it acts as a gag. There are times in the interview when Clegg looks so pained as to remind me of Colin Firth in the opening scenes of The King's Speech, particularly when issues of Rupert Murdoch and phone-hacking come up. I know what he'd have said if he were in opposition. The Lib Dems were always very critical of the Cameron-Murdoch cabal. Some Lib Dem MPs were victims of phone-hacking by the News of the World.

“My thoughts are," he begins haltingly, "that it has all come out much more into the open since the police investigation . . . and I think, you know, since those days it is becoming much more out there, and quite rightly. I've always said that the police have got to investigate and the CPS [Crown Prosecution Service] have got to take action. Look, I don't follow every twist and turn . . ." His press secretary looks up for the first time.

What of those, such as the Labour MPs Chris Bryant and Tom Watson, who believe that the Murdochs have too much power and influence over politicians? There's a long pause. "I think that the days when newspaper barons could basically click their fingers and governments would snap to attention have gone," he says.

Clegg is exceptionally loyal to David Cameron – I expect he is a loyal man by nature, not design – but there's a fine line between being loyal and sounding plain disingenuous. So, what does he think of the dinner party hosted over Christmas by News International's chief executive, Rebekah Brooks, at her Cotswolds home, attended by the Camerons and James Murdoch?

“I don't know anything about Oxfordshire dinner parties," he says. Of course he does. Everyone in politics knows about the get-together of Brooks, Cameron and Rupert Murdoch's son, and most agree that the timing of it was inappropriate, given that there was a criminal investigation under way over phone-hacking in the Murdoch empire, as well as ongoing negotiations with the regulatory authorities over the ownership of BSkyB.

“Well, I'm assuming that they weren't sitting there talking about News International issues," says Clegg. "Look, you're putting me in a very awkward spot. If you've got an issue with it, speak to Dave. I don't hang out in Oxfordshire at dinner parties. It's not my world. It's never going to be my world."

He looks pained. I feel sorry for him and I can't help telling him so. I was married to a politician and I remember the constant self-censorship and, in my case, the gaffes. I get the impression that Nick Clegg is an honest, straightforward man in a dishonest, unstraightforward world, in which nobody can say what they really think.

An interruption offers some blessed relief. A beaming middle-aged woman who has spotted Clegg on the train passes a note to his aide. It reads: "I couldn't resist such a unique opportunity to say, 'Stick With It!' The vast majority of us think the coalition are doing the right thing. We know it's tough but it's very necessary. All the best."

The press secretary looks triumphant. Clegg looks momentarily less beleaguered. He thanks the woman graciously and just as I am wondering if it was a set-up, Clegg jokes that it was. He often gets support from the public, he says, but the difference is that these days people whisper their congratulations, "as if it's a guilty secret saying anything nice about Nick Clegg". He should watch those slips into the third person – an early sign that a person is losing touch with reality.

Clegg was a strong opponent of the war in Iraq and for that he earned many supporters. His backing of the "surge" and British forces' continued presence in Afghan­istan is therefore surprising. There are rumours, which he denies, that he wanted to call for an immediate withdrawal of troops but that the former Lib Dem leader Paddy Ashdown, an ex-marine, persuaded him not to.

“In a sense," Clegg says, "we have brought our ambition to a much more realistic level. We've now got an exit date, which we didn't have before, and a much better set of weapons on the ground. And crucially you've got the British government saying to [President Hamid] Karzai – who I had dinner with recently – this cannot be won militarily. Once you're in that far and you've had that many people die and be maimed, I think it would be morally questionable to cut and run overnight."

It is hard to avoid the conclusion that the real reason we continue to pour money into a war with no clear goals – and continue to line the roads of Wootton Bassett – is so that those in power will be able to keep on claiming that "they did not die in vain".

“Look, it's never perfect. It's not a neat world," says Clegg. He is above all a pragmatist for whom coalition, foreign policy and life are a balancing act. He accepts that there are moral problems with supporting Karzai's government, which has no authority outside the Afghan capital, Kabul, and which, according to the Transparency International corruption index, was last year the second most corrupt in the world. "Exactly – that's where it gets messy and imperfect."

Clegg is pleased to have "got more balance into the debate on Israel in the party". While he is "undimmed" in his criticism of Israel's illegal settlement activity and his "absolute horror of what is a humanitarian catastrophe in Gaza", he stresses that "Israel has legitimate security issues in a region where there is a threat to its existence".

He denies that there is a fundamental incompatibility between the west's rhetoric about democracy and our need for oil. "Do we have vital economic self-interest to keep lights on? Yes. Do I think that should be won at the cost of always being on the side of people who want to express themselves and want democracy? No."

He refuses to be drawn on whether he thinks it was bad timing for Cameron to tour the Middle East on a "UK trade mission"- a euphemism for peddling arms to despots – at a time when there are widespread protests in favour of democracy in the region. He will say, though, that the business of selling arms represents "a horrendous dilemma".

That we have sold arms to repressive regimes – tear gas grenades to Bahrain, armoured personnel carriers to Saudi Arabia, crowd-control ammunition to Libya – is "of course wrong", he agrees. "That's why we've suspended scores and scores of export licences. What guarantee do you have when you export product X to country Y, who seem totally hunky-dory, totally peaceful, and what happens when the country goes belly up? What we're doing is pragmatic rather than pure."

Even the language Clegg uses is moderate and qualified, interspersed with phrases such as "kind of" and "on the other hand" as well as rhetorical questions and unfinished sentences. He's unhyperbolic and ambiguous in a way that must be alien to most Tories. Whereas Cameron strikes me as a man with almost no self-doubt, Clegg seems more self-questioning and less bombastic. I suspect that he is as accom­modating and good at compromise in his marriage as he has been politically.

He smiles for the first time when he tells me that his Spanish wife, Miriam, has "got wonderfully strong opinions". It's clear for a start who chose the names for their three children, Antonio, Alberto and Miguel Clegg. They are being brought up as Roman Catholics, even though Clegg has said he is an atheist. The children are bilingual, speaking both Spanish and English fluently.

At one point, it was assumed that Miriam would be the one with the big career and he would be the thinker and take care of their children. After his eldest son was born, Clegg says: "Miriam was in a particularly intense period of her career and I was in a particularly relaxed period of mine . . . coming to the end of my time as an MEP, so I was very, very involved. I wasn't the primary parent – Miriam would get very annoyed if she were to read that – but I was very involved and you carry that on with you."

He has successfully managed to keep his family out of the spotlight, "to create a firewall" between his world and theirs, although he worries constantly that "what I am doing in my work impacts on them emotionally, because my nine-year-old is starting to sense things and I'm having to explain things. Like he asks, 'Why are the students angry with you, Papa?'"

Clegg refuses "to play politics" with his children, or to say whether or not they will go to a private school. While he's not "ideologically opposed to fee-paying schools existing", he is offended by the notion that it would be his decision alone, rather than one he would reach with Miriam. "I go: hang on a minute – what century are we living in?"

The same applies to what he might do in the future. He certainly does not want to be in politics all his life. "I think that's deeply unhealthy. I look at those people that got into politics when they were 16 and are still at it in their late sixties and think, 'My heavens above!'" Judging by the most recent opinion polls, he may not have the luxury of choice. Either way, he says, Miriam has made "masses of sacrifices putting up with me and politics" and this will be something they decide on together. He'd like to think, though, that he would go into education.

He is besotted by his "three lovely boys" and is most proud "by a long shot" of the family life he has created with Miriam. They manage to lead a relatively normal life, "not in a bunker in Westminster", and he tries to pick his children up from school and put them to bed at night at least two or three times a week.

He regrets that sometimes he doesn't always get the balance right, which makes him "quite miserable" and unable to do his job properly.Sometimes he has to tell them white lies if he is stuck in a meeting. At home, in the evenings, he likes to read novels and says he "cries regularly to music."

I receive a snapshot of his family life when, after the interview is over, I am invited to dine with other journalists at Chevening, the grace- and-favour house in Kent that Clegg shares with William Hague. Clegg arrives two hours late – he's been in protracted discussions over Libya – and looks corpse-like with exhaustion. The contrast with his vibrant, pretty wife, with her big bawdy laugh, could not be more stark. His children seem delightful – and delightfully normal.

Clegg has been accused of selling out, of providing a yellow fig leaf for the Tories' less attractive bits. But I expect that he would see opting out of the coalition or leaving politics altogether as the biggest cop-out of all. He is not consumed by politics – he has a fulfilling life away from Westminster – but he seems to have an old-fashioned sense of duty and believes that, without him there in the cabinet, the Tories would be up to far more of their old tricks. He might well be right – but will he be so easily forgiven by the voters?

“I have a faintly romantic belief that if over five years I just keep steadily trying to do the best I can, with all the difficult dilemmas we face, with not very much money, all those kinds of things . . . we will kind of come through. I think if people see that someone is trying to do the right thing and maybe they're not entirely succeeding, they kind of will go with you. And that's all you can do."

He suddenly looks very, very sad. A week later I glimpse him on television, on the front bench on Budget Day. Cameron sits to his left, looking ruddy and shiny, straight off the playing fields, ready for an interminable life of "Yeah, yeah, yeah" in the Commons. Clegg, by contrast, looks like he's in black and white – lost and out of place.

Later that evening, I get a text from his press secretary, offering me "a full copy of the note that lady passed on the train". He thought I might like it for my piece, "in case it needs some colour".

Jemima Khan is associate editor of the New Statesman

This article first appeared in the 11 April 2011 issue of the New Statesman, Jemima Khan guest edit

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Men who fight

I thought that boxing was a display of pointless violence – but an unheralded prizefighter changed my mind.

Tommy Martin threw the first punch – then a series of hooks and jabs that struck the arms of the Commonwealth super-lightweight champion, John Wayne Hibbert. All eyes strained to follow the boxers as they skipped and shuffled their way around the bright blue ring.

Boxing is controlled chaos. The referee, watchful and sharp in his bow tie, brings the control; the boxers bring the chaos. From the terrace of the Copper Box Arena at the Olympic Park in London, the action seemed remote at first. The men in the spotlight were the size of toy soldiers and their grunts and gasps were inaudible. Only the heaviest blows seemed to make any sound: pop-pop, like rain on an umbrella.

Then the ferocity of Martin’s attacks, of Hibbert’s responses, registered among the crowd. Conversations ended mid-sentence. As the boxers showered each other with their punches, pop-poppop-pop-pop, a shiver of delight ran across the arena. A man to my left started laughing. Another stood up. Just 20 seconds into the fight, Martin was driven against the ropes but broke free, perhaps a little frantically. He raised his gloves. Hibbert, grim-faced, advanced.

Champion from Big Face Art on Vimeo.

Hit someone in a bar, at home, or on the street and you might soon find yourself in jail. Do so in a ring and you could win a belt. For decades, the World Medical Association has called for a total ban on boxing, arguing that a fighter’s “basic intent” is “to produce bodily harm in the opponent”. The New Yorker journalist A J Liebling called it “the sweet science”, but there was nothing sweet in the images of the 25-year-old middleweight Nick Blackwell being carried out of Wembley Arena on a stretcher in March after his defeat to Chris Eubank, Jr; there was nothing sweet about his seven-day coma that followed. The violence of boxing is unapologetic.

Yet a curious thing about the sport is that this bodily harm is inflicted largely without malice. There is little cruelty here, at least in the conventional sense. A boxing match is a test of strength, speed, endurance and strategy. It is not a brawl.

Anomalies are fairly easy to list – such as the 1997 WBA title fight in which Mike Tyson bit off part of Evander Holyfield’s right ear – but much of what we might read as anger or hatred in the ring exists, in reality, outside of it. “There is so much hate among people, so much contempt inside people . .  . that they hire prizefighters to do their hating for them,” the former heavyweight champion Floyd Patterson once said. The fighters perform animosity on our behalf – but do they feel it?

Boxing is ritualised aggression, qualified by the paraphernalia of sport, scored by judges, watched by members of a society in which the state has been granted a monopoly on physical force. Violence, licensed all but exclusively to the police and the army, is enshrined as a civilising instrument: we are appalled when it is wielded by anyone outside of this social covenant and condemn it as barbaric, senseless or criminal. Yet here at the Hibbert-Martin fight, one evening in January, was a carnivalesque exception. We watched men fight for money and we thrilled to it.

I’d first seen Hibbert on TV the previous September. I knew next to nothing about his sport but I was transfixed by the sight of the 30-year-old boxer – his blue eyes sunken in a face grown puffy with bruises – fighting the then Commonwealth super-lightweight champion, Dave “Rocky” Ryan. I initially recoiled from what seemed a pointlessly ­violent spectacle; it all felt oddly wasteful. But something compelled me to keep looking. And the more I looked, the more heroic the men appeared, and the less certain I became of my first impressions.

Hibbert won that fight and took the title. When he announced that he would soon be defending it against an up-and-coming fighter called Tommy Martin, I googled the promoter’s website and bought a ticket.

***

Martin, a boyish, sandy-haired 21-year-old from St Neots in Cambridgeshire, had speed and much of the crowd on his side. Maybe God, too. “I believe everything happens for a reason,” he told a local newspaper shortly before the fight. “I just believe it’s my time . . . It’s just about putting my faith and trust in the Lord.”

Between rounds, he would cross himself. Hibbert sought no such protection – not visibly, at any rate.

Although Hibbert was now the Commonwealth champion in his weight cate­gory (with a maximum of ten stone), the odds were against him. The title fight I’d seen on television in September had ended in unusual circumstances: Ryan had suffered a sudden, unexplained back injury in the tenth round. He froze, no longer able to dodge Hibbert’s punches. Hibbert took his chance and trapped Ryan in a corner, stunning him with a right hook to the head. The referee ended the bout.

Sceptical of Hibbert’s ability to hold on to the belt, the bookies listed Martin, a decade younger and still unbeaten after 13 fights, as the clear favourite to win. “They will be losing a few quid,” Hibbert countered, in a statement to the press. When I visited him at his “spit-and-sawdust” gym in Corringham, Essex, four weeks before the big night, he told me that Martin was a “stepping stone”.

“He’s in my way. He’s there [to let me] get to where I want to get to.” His voice was calm and steady, empty of bravado. This was a statement of fact.

In the weeks that followed, Hibbert declared repeatedly that victory would be his. “Whatever he brings to the table, I have the answer for,” he said. “It will be a short night.” He seemed to believe it.

He had to believe it. Since his professional debut in the summer of 2009, Hibbert had fought 19 bouts, many of them bloody and bruising, and had come out on top in most. Martin entered the ring as a pro three years later at the age of 18, and had six fewer matches’ worth of experience.

“I’ve been involved in much harder fights,” Hibbert said. “I can’t wait to get in there now and do the business.” Yet ­boxing is a risky business, even for old hands. As Joyce Carol Oates once observed of the sport: “Loss, humiliation, shame are only part of the risk – physical injury, even death, awaits as well.”

***

When Hibbert was first marched into a gym as a teenager by his father, he wasn’t quite prepared for what he would find. “I was a young lad in a little village, Horndon-on-the-Hill, and causing a bit of mischief,” he told me. “My dad sort of thought that boxing would be the right thing for me to do. You know? Give me a bit of discipline.”

What he felt, he said, was fear. “Going into a gym was quite intimidating – the trainers in there, everything, the smells. There were some lads, the lads around town, and they would dig you out a bit. It weren’t the nicest thing.”

Soon, however, Hibbert was able to get “the hang of it” and learned to “love training, love boxing”. He smiled at the memory and seemed to nod in agreement with himself. He was right to have persevered. But I was struck by his ability to work through his initial fear – a rational fear of violence and pain – and then to turn it into something he loved.

Outside the glare of ring lights, Hibbert was no-nonsense but not brusque; he was thoughtful and gave little impression of aggression. His movements were controlled, as those of sportsmen often are, and he answered my inexpert questions with patience. In short, he was dignified. Sitting at ease in his gym, with photographs of Mike Tyson and other champions glaring down from their frames on the cold, concrete walls, he projected none of the aggression that he had spent nearly two decades of his life training for. I asked him if he enjoyed boxing. “Yeah, I do like getting in there and having a bit of a fight,” he answered, with what looked like a guilty grin. “It’s in you, you know?”

But the will to keep fighting when confronted with physical danger is not entirely innate. Endurance of this kind is honed – it can’t just be dared or forced into existence. Before winning the Commonwealth title last September, Hibbert had twice been beaten by Ryan. Their second fight in May 2015 was furious, with relentless combinations of punches hitting their targets on both sides. Hibbert was felled after half an hour or so in the ring. A similar stoppage seemed likely in their third encounter: halfway through the match, Ryan dug his fist into Hibbert’s solar plexus and brought him to his knees. But the challenger collected himself. He got to his feet and kept pacing, parrying and lunging at his ­opponent until the bell rang.

I asked him what had given him the resolve to continue after that sixth-round blow. “It did hurt,” he said, recalling the shaky moment – the way he had staggered and struggled for breath, sweat gathering on his brow. Then he shifted in his seat and told me a story that was clearly important to him; he would return to it repeatedly during our conversations. “Dave Ryan was winning the fight but I’d promised my two children, especially my little girl, that I’d bring [the Commonwealth belt] home for her,” he said. “She loves that rainbow belt. She ain’t got a clue what it’s about. She just wanted it ’cause it looked nice.”

Hibbert is a family man and I believed him each time he resurrected this theme: that he drew strength to fight from the thought of his children, Lexie and Connor, aged six and three. (I wondered about his interests outside boxing. “Family!” he informed me.) It pained him to spend so much time apart from them. “They go through a lot,” he said, “because you spend your life in the gym. Sometimes, you get home – say, if you’re training three times a day – and you know you’ve got it going again the next day . . . but your kids just want to play with you.”

He visibly softened. “My little girl wants me to help her do her homework. Not that I’m very good at that – she’s cleverer than me already. But you’re tired and you need your rest . . . There’s a lot of things that go on that people don’t see.” His wife, Kerrie, who he met at a local pub a decade ago, comes to each of his fights.

Hibbert’s first name is actually Wayne. John was his grandfather’s name. He adopted it when he registered for his pro licence, to honour the man who had pushed him, who had shouted, “Come on, boy, let’s get it going!” whenever he was “a bit wayward . . . knocking about round the streets”. The original John would sit ringside at the gym, smoking away at his pipe, proud of his grandson. He died eight years ago, without witnessing Hibbert’s rise up the ranks of the sport. Later, I noticed on his shiny, blue-black shorts the word “Granddad”, above a picture of a golden crucifix and a pair of angel wings. On the front and back were “Lexie” and “Connor”.

Yet the love of family alone could not explain Hibbert’s resilience: his “heart”, in boxing parlance. There must have been something else, something harder. Hunter S Thompson once wrote of pursuing “the edge” – the liminal space between deadening security and the danger of a literal
death – and I thought I could sense something of this impulse in fighters. To walk habitually on such a precipice, surely some deep, evolutionary instinct for self-preservation must be negotiated, if not negated altogether. How was this possible? Few fighters win every bout and even a victory can prove damaging in the long run. Injury is part of the job description.

When I pressed Hibbert on this, his look of focus returned. “That’s what a lot of people say: ‘How can you just get punched?’” He seemed almost bemused by the question. “You just don’t think of it. It is what it is. I’ve done it for so long now. It’s what I know. I don’t know anything else.”

***

By the ninth round of the Copper Box fight, the judges’ scorecards were even. Hibbert had dominated the first five, walking through Martin’s attempts at combinations and forcing him against the ropes time and again. Yet a solid right to Hibbert’s side had emboldened the younger boxer, who made the most of the champion’s defensive lapses in the seventh round. Martin threw a hook. He drove back his opponent. Hibbert began to squint. His left eye was swelling badly and his nose was bleeding.

With just three of the 12 rounds left, the pace slackened for the first time. Both boxers were exhausted and they stared at each other, hesitating. As the eleventh began, Martin’s comparative inexperience was showing. He was now throwing single punches, which Hibbert countered with swarms. One of Martin’s attacks connected. Hibbert pounded back, pop-pop-pop.

In their corners, the trainers looked on. Their heads moved with those of their charges. They shouted and waved their hands. In the minute-long intervals between the action, they applied Vaseline to cuts and delivered bullet-point lectures on strategy. Mark “Sach” Bates, Hibbert’s lead trainer, gave advice on how to exploit Martin’s habit of falling back and standing with his gloves covering his face. Then the bell announced the fight’s final three minutes.

Instead of marching straight into combat, Hibbert gave his opponent a brief hug. It was a surprising, touching gesture. Then he raised his fists and charged into Martin, all merciless determination.

Ninety seconds was all it took. The 21-year-old challenger dropped to his knees after Hibbert’s machine-like pounding had pushed him on to the ropes once again. As the referee started the count, Martin’s eyes drifted to his corner. His trainers stared back. Then he tilted his head in Hibbert’s direction, but the champion just hopped on the spot, readying himself for another push. “Seven, eight . . .” the referee bellowed. Martin didn’t hear it. When he finally stood up, it was too late. The fight was over.

“You just don’t think of it,” Hibbert had told me: he was able to face the punches because he could banish the thought of the pain they would cause and the consequences they could have. “You just don’t think of it”: he was able to fight Martin and make an enemy of him for this one night by banishing the knowledge that they are, in his own words, “pretty close”. Shortly before the match, Tommy had called Wayne his “best friend in boxing”.

They had been sparring partners as ­Hibbert trained for the Dave Ryan fights last year. Martin was ringside to watch his friend win the Commonwealth title; he was “over the moon” when Hibbert’s victory was declared. But all of that was irrelevant in the run-up to their own fight. “Boxing gives you discipline and respect [for your opponents]. They’re in the ring to do their job and I’m in there to do mine,” Hibbert explained. “But losing would set me back financially and ruin things for my kids. You’ve got no friends when you go in there. They’re your enemies.”

So: “You just don’t think of it.” But Hibbert did think of it. He couldn’t help it. From early on in the fight, the two boxers would fist-bump each other in the intervals between their 180-second battles: an expression of “hang in there” that was at odds with the jabs and hooks that followed. Their embrace in the final round was only the most open gesture of a friendship that couldn’t quite be denied, even in the midst of physical conflict.

The chime of the final bell faded. Hibbert jumped up in joy – or maybe it was relief – and acknowledged his fans. Then he walked over to Martin and consoled him. The younger man looked up at him, almost in tears. In the post-match interview, Hibbert insisted that, although he had won, Martin had hurt him badly, a strange compliment in any other circumstances but a generous one here. Martin leaned over and kissed him on the side of his head before thanking the referee and Jesus Christ for keeping them safe.

***

“You discipline your mind. That’s the art of training,” Hibbert told me as we sat in his Essex gym. “It keeps your mind active.” Yet boxing, to him, was ultimately “a business”. “You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do to provide for your family,” he said. I asked him how much he makes. “I don’t really wanna say,” he replied, but added: “Hopefully, my next few fights might get me a house paid for, or most of it, anyway.” (While world heavyweight champions such as Tyson Fury can earn purses of over £3.5m, Commonwealth title fights in Hibbert’s category are far less lucrative. Other boxers have received about £30,000 for comparable bouts.)

He did not romanticise the sport, something that writers find oddly difficult to resist – Ernest Hemingway even took it up as an amateur and built a ring in the backyard of his house in Key West, Florida. Hibbert spoke of his years as a manual labourer, laying floors, with almost as much fondness as he described his boxing career. It was
work, that’s all.

But work of this sort, which takes for granted the risk of severe injury, seems to confer on its practitioner an aura of strength that goes beyond the merely physical. Talking to Hibbert as he trained at his gym and as he rested at his London hotel on the morning of the fight, I was reminded of Ruskin’s thoughts on mountain climbing. In a letter to his father in 1863, he wrote:

“. . . if you come to a dangerous place, and turn back from it, though it may have been perfectly right and wise to do so, still your character has suffered some slight deterioration . . . whereas if you go through with the danger, though it may have been apparently rash and foolish to encounter it, you come out of the encounter a stronger and better man, fitter for every sort of work or trial, and nothing but danger produces this effect.”

***

My impression of John Wayne Hibbert was one of solidity of character. I suspect that he is not alone among boxers to have this trait, forged, perhaps, by the tempering of the will that is necessary for such an extreme occupation.

The morality of the sport has been much debated but, in the same spirit as we can condemn wars but honour the soldiers who fight them, I think the bravery and the glory of boxers are beyond dispute. And there I go – romanticising it, when it’s strictly a matter of business. It’s work, that’s all.

Yo Zushi’s latest album, “It Never Entered My Mind”, is released by Eidola Records

Yo Zushi is a sub-editor of the New Statesman. His work as a musician is released by Eidola Records.

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue