The interview starts with an apology. “Sorry,” says Chris Gayle’s handler. “We might have to push this back a bit. Chris has had a really big few days, as you can see.” He waves his arm behind him. I’m wondering exactly what he’s gesturing at when I finally spot Gayle stretched out flat on a black sofa that so exactly matches his outfit (black shoes, black trousers, a black hoodie and a pair of big black sunglasses) that he is perfectly camouflaged by the cushions.
It’s three o’clock in the afternoon and he’s fast asleep. On a sofa. In a hotel lobby bar. While everyone else walks and talks around him. Cricket’s Disco King is taking a badly needed nap. We perch either side and try to carry on a conversation around him. A club sandwich arrives. The waiter puts it down by Gayle’s head. He lifts his neck, heaves a forkful to his mouth and lies back down again. “Hopefully it won’t be long now,” the handler offers.
