Looking through the keyhole of sport behind closed doors

As professional sport begins to take its first steps towards a return to action in a post-corona world, it’s a fascinating time- not only for fans of sport as their blue-balled appetite for some live action will be satiated, but also to see how the various sports fare when playing behind closed doors. On top of the logistical and testing considerations necessary for the actual participants to return safely and morally, the most startling difference will be the lack of fans in attendance.

Up until now, our only experience of live sporting entertainment in an empty arena has been The Rock vs Mankind on Halftime Heat, football matches played due to punishment against racist transgressions from supporters, or Manchester City trying to fill the Etihad for a Champions League group game. But this will become the new norm, at least for now, and on top of the gargantuan financial implications of lost revenue, sports collective challenge will be to adapt and overcome the loss of that intangible x-factor that a live crowd delivers, so as not to provide a sanitised, wash your hands and sing happy birthday twice version of the sport that even the most ardent fans eventually can’t endure.

This challenge will be met and adapted to with varying degrees of success, and much will depend on the role that fans have previously played, both in presentation of the product delivered, and their effect on participants. Let’s begin our run-through.

Football

As the leading sport (particularly in England), Football is exported around the world for enormous fees due to the passion of its supporters. The live crowd is essential for the theatre of it all, creating at times a spine-tingling, hair-raising, almost tribal atmosphere that no other sport can compete with. The Bundesliga has already returned with fans, doing about as good a job as possible with social distancing employed on benches, and more reserved celebrations. To the players’ credit, the standard and intensity of the games played have been exemplary, but at times it can still be a difficult watch. Because of my relative ignorance of the German top flight, I would rely on a symbiosis of sorts between myself and the atmosphere on TV, allowing me to become invested in the game because of the clear passion that it inspires in its watchers. Without that element, it’s been hard to get too excited and no amount of cardboard-cut-out fans in the stands or sex dolls (Korea, you kinky bastards) can fill the void.

The Premier league, at least for me, may be an easier transition because I have an in-built knowledge of and relationship to the tapestry of the teams, leagues, players, and stakes. Minus the raucous crowd, it may even be interesting hearing every single shout and instruction from teammates and coaches, and the expletive, laden nature of what’s actually said on the pitch being audible will have some humorous novelty once laid bare. What’s starting to become apparent based on the first few rounds of fixtures from Germany is the effect this new reality will have on the competitive edge of the sport. Home advantage quite understandably seems to have eroded, and those clubs that rejected the Premier Leagues’ proposals of neutral ground venues may be starting to regret their bluster. What advantage does a Watford or Crystal Palace nowhave playing in a tight, compact stadium with their home fixtures no longer buttressed by a partisan, intense crowd that gets on top of their opponents? So, too is the question raised about the different styles of teams that may be able to excel more comfortably in this new environment than others. Will a team like Liverpool, who benefit from the roar of an Anfield crowd spurring their high intensity, pressing game to an even higher–level fare worse than a more technically based team like Manchester City? With the title all but confirmed this year, these questions will have less of an impact on how the honours are settled for this season, but could play a much bigger part should large portions of next season be played under the same restrictions. One thing it will put a plaster on (but in no way solve) is the reemergent trend of racism amongst the terraces. Players will also be spared their weekly subjections to vitriolic and vituperative abuse from the stands, and whilst some may welcome the respite, others who use it as fuel and motivation may also miss it. The referee will no longer be a ‘wanker’ (at least audibly), and little old ladies won’t give the finger to serial cheaters.

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Verdict

Football at the highest level, is absolutely the one sport that must return amid this pandemic to avoid its financial implosion and the collapse of the football pyramid that gives the game its integrity. The rabid tribalism that permeates the live experience, whilst on occasion problematic, is the very fabric and procession of what makes the game what it is and will be sorely missed. Some football is better than no football, and we will watch but it will be nothing more than an appetiser for the eventual return of football with fans.

Combat sports

The return of the UFC has created a successful blueprint for boxing to follow suit. For some reason this is a sport that really works behind closed doors and I thoroughly enjoyed watching Ferguson vs Gaethje on PPV, although I still wish it had taken place on Fight Island. Fans are missed to a degree; the sense of occasion and pandemonium in the air when particularly good entrance is made, along with the reactions to what is going on in the octagon. It does somehow feel less significant and grandiose, as there isn’t that pomp and circumstance that adds to the presentation of live combat. But conversely, there are elements that have been added to the viewing experience. Fighting is a sport best viewed on TV anyway, with a multitude of camera angles and the benefit of expert analysis, plus now we can hear every single corner instruction and, every unforgiving smack of a punch or kick to the flesh. It also opens some interesting and possibly positive effects on performance and outcome. Whilst fighters won’t be able to be stirred by a partisan crowd, they’ll also now no longer be booed by an ignorant blood-thirsty crowd who frustratingly view long periods of technical ground work as periods of inactivity. There has also been a tendency in combat sports for judges to clearly be swayed by acrowd’s reactions, perhaps subconsciously awarding erroneous points for flurries of inaccurate activity that engender a crowd response rather than more precise striking.

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Verdict

The UFC has done an excellent job in producing events behind closed doors so far. Fighting is one of the best- placed sports for these restrictions as it’s a more visceral, intense and personal form of entertainment than  many others. With creative lighting, darkening the empty seats and the added effect of hearing every corner instruction and talk between fighter and trainer in between rounds, the sport has somehow become more compelling than ever, and it could be argued that it has become a truer representation of what the sport is truly about: two fighters getting in a cage to prove who is the best martial artist. I’ve no doubt boxing will follow the template and Eddie Hearns’ plan to stage fights quite literally in his back garden, is one of the most hilarious yet fantastic things to come out of this whole pandemics effect on sport.

Golf

Golf is one of the sports that does have a real opportunity to grow in popularity in this new climate. Constantly fighting a battle to attract new fans, keep ratings up and attract new youthful sponsors (thanks, Happy Gilmore) one of its key advantages is that social distancing is really not an issue. There is no close quarter combat or jostling for position in penalty boxes. It’s an incredibly individual pursuit, where often you are not playing your opponent, you’re simply playing yourself and waging an internal battle. In the few incarnations we’ve already seen played out, featuring the likes of Tiger Woods, Rory Mcllroy, Payton Manning and Tom Brady, we’ve seen some excellent TV innovations implemented that have really added to the viewing experience. Players have been mic’d up and connected to the commentary feed, so we’ve been able to hear the constant chatter and banter among the pro’s that we’d normally think just takes place on recreational courses. There has also been a novelty in seeing players have the humility to carry their own bags and be on flag duty sans the help of their usual caddies. Live spot betting on individual hole and shot outcomes was introduced, also helping to increase (if not slightly unscrupulously) the live actions appeal. The overarching point is that the sports intricacies can function perfectly in a post- corona world, and the innovations put forth to the TV viewer could actually broaden the appeal of a sport that is often compared to watching paint dry by its most ignorant detractors. As ever there is definitely something lost with the absence of a crowd, the gallery erupting at a put sinking, the spectacle of a player pairing attracting a large following and dividing allegiances, the sight of Tiger Woods being followed en masse on the 18^th. However, it will be nice to not have some twat yelling ‘get in the hole!’ after every half-decent drive on a par 3.

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Verdict

Golf does face challenges playing behind closed doors but also has an opportunity to get more eyes on it than ever. Again, it will be interesting to see if some players fare better in the new environment, with those more prone to the pressuring enormity of a packed gallery and following crowd being able to relax. Conversely, will crowd favourites who clearly draw on the partisanship they inspire suffer? Its real challenge will be leveraging the TV innovations and creating a raw and authentic product that will compel viewers. So far, many of these innovations have worked due to the more casual, celebrity/charity mix of participants with far less at stake than professional tournaments. If players can avoid becoming self-aware that their every word is being broadcasted, and television coverage can get out of its own way and allow more risqué language to become the norm in the name of competitive spirit, golf could well enter a completely new era, freeing itself of its previously fuddy-duddy shackles.

Across the spectrum there are sports whose inherent practicalities will allow for safer resumption. Similar to golf, tennis relies on as much silence as possible from its viewing crowd as players are taking shots and will at least be rid of idiots who still shout ‘come on Tim’ or miscreants like myself who, on my only visit to Wimbledon, indulged in a juvenile game of ‘who can get the last clap in between points’ with my fellow booze and sun-addled viewing party. But so much of its drama is predicated on the reactions of the crowd during a seesaw point, and iconic moments of grand slam wins where crowds explode after an almost tantric build up of suspense will be lost. Rugby will lose many of the same intangibles that makes the atmosphere at football so electric, though it will be a more good-hearted, convivial sense of fan rivalry that is in abeyance as opposed to the tribal forces at work in football. The likes of snooker pretty much remain in–tact, with the former watched primarily by those in the live crowd who tune into the TV commentary on headsets anyway. Perhaps a player might also welcome the absence of a wretched cough or mobile phone alert during a shot. F1 will suffer, despite the live crowds experience essentially already being limited to a car occasionally zooming past. So much of the sports symbiotic appeal is founded on the boujee elements, celebrities inhabiting the paddock, oversized champagne soaked podiums and the osmosis of yearning for the high life that occurs when watching something like the Monaco GP on TV. Cricket will have to borrow many of the innovations used on twenty20 coverage with players mic’d up to cover for the lack of atmosphere. But no innovation can replace the thrill of seeing if that bloke in the crowd can catch the 6 that’s just been hit, the irreverence of a crowd snake of plastic pint glasses or fancy dress outfits at a test match. Cricket has always been one of those comforting sports to watch, either on TV or at the ground, a constant hustle and bustle of noise around the ground even during a lull in action, with some sport to occasionally glance at as you get drunk in the sun. 

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There are other sports I could analyse but I think an overall verdict has been reached. People are yearning for sports’ return, and I am glad it’s on its way, even if it will be a slightly sanitised version of what we’ve come to know. It will be fascinating to see if any trends emerge in terms of effects on performance while athletes will be challenged to recalibrate themselves back to the days when they were burgeoning stars on the rise, competing in front of limited crowds and without an atmosphere to feed off. Starting with footballs return on June 17^th, millions of fans will reembrace the comforting familiarity of their calendars and weekends revolving around the fixtures that are on, bets will be placed again, and even more lockdown beer will be drunk. That will be perhaps the most egregious thing missing, not only will crowds not be allowed in stadiums, crowds will not be allowed to congregate over a day’s action of football, beginning with the 12:45 kick off, moving through to Jeff and the boys whilst frantically checking their accumulators and finishing the evening game off amidst a comforting haze of pint-fuelled football euphoria.

Now, if we can only get the pubs opened again.

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Lockdown Comedown?

What a curious time it is to be alive. Coronavirus has changed life drastically in the matter of a month and half. I write this in the relatively privileged position of sitting on my balcony in a London flat, a room of which I rent from two good friends. I am in no immediate financial or medical peril, having been furloughed and seemingly escaped with an asymptomatic iteration of Coronavirus after my flatmate was struck down for a week with some uncomfortable, but thank god not deadly, symptoms. It almost seems self-indulgent or insensitive to ruminate on any personal, or lack thereof, issues stemming from this time. I am not on the frontline in the NHS or Care sector, I am not one of the essentially deemed workers who are still punching the clock to keep critical infrastructure going. I am not one of the myriad people whose life has been turned upside down because of the virus affecting their employment, self-employment or business. I am fortunate enough to seemingly not suffer from anything underlying that would have fortified the virus’s effects on me. I am lucky enough that I have been furloughed, lucky enough that furlough is even a thing. I am lucky enough that if it wasn’t, and I really had to dip into the savings pot and absorb an inconvenient transitory financial hit, I could. We are lucky enough, we, being you and me dear reader, that we are the majority. What’s been particularly staggering is that as time has progressed, I’ve begun to not even mind this whole lockdown/furlough experience. I maybe, just maybe even like it.

If lockdown is our captor, am I undergoing Stockholm syndrome? Am I institutionalising myself into becoming a recidivist? Will I yearn, once this mess is over, for the emergence of a new killer virus that plunges us into another perpetual state of life on hold? Thankfully the answer to that is no, as I like to think I am not a sociopath. Even as I write this I am taking care not to fall into the #Blessed one lockdown cliche that Time out so acutely, if light- heartedly, posited. Is this virus the universes way of reminding us of what’s important? Of course, it’s bloody not. This isn’t some ecclesiastical Noah’s Ark meets modern world parable. People are dying, people are getting seriously ill, economies are being ravaged. I don’t believe the universe to be a petty, malevolent force playing vengeful god, though there is a certain irony in Mother Nature both crippling its inhabitants and healing itself simultaneously, all due to human’s insatiable need to exhibit more and more fucked up behaviour. Gluttony and perverse excess distilled in the Bats and Pangolin’s of a Chinese wet market coming home to roost.

I thought the other day, that this must be what it’s like to be on Love Island, inculcated from the outside world, living in a bubble, except our phones aren’t just selfie devices or hashtag laden message receptacles (though these can be found in droves on a quick mindless scroll through your ever more nauseating Instagram feed). Instead of a Villa full of attractive singletons, there’s an ever more growing reliance on dating apps brimming with a cavalcade of opportunities for Zoom and Houseparty calls. Rather than a gym on the lawn by the pool, we have Joe Wicks and home yoga and bedroom workouts with weights (for those of you lucky enough to procure them). At least we’re not rationed to two drinks a night; I probably wouldn’t be writing this blog right now, I’d have gone fully mental. Thank god the nations’ obsession was with loo roll rather than alcohol in those first few weeks. Okay, it’s not really like Love Island(it’s probably more like being on Too Hot To Handle, Lockdown Lana our rule book, and when lockdown gets released our watches might turn green) but my point remains about the inculcation, the isolation, the limited social sphere we now inhabit. Our relationships limited to either those we live with, digital faces on screens, or ourselves.

It’s that relationship with ourselves that I’ve found most interesting. Because if nothing else there’s been time, and time can be used for introspection. I’ve known it for a long time, but this peculiar period of prematurely enforced retirement has really nailed the punctuation point on the disdain I have for what I spent most of my time doing. A well-paid job no doubt, a promotion recently secured, endless travel opportunities, all the while feeling horrendously out of my depth. A master of bullshitting and blagging, wowing and ah I seeing my way through conversations with legal and financial experts speaking about instruments and intricacies I neither understand, nor care to, all in the hope of flogging them a sponsorship package on an average portfolio of uninspiring conferences, so I can earn a bonus and keep progressing along the ladder to the next salary band I have built up in my head as the target I need to reach to be fulfilled. I do this dutifully, and I do it successfully for 37 and a half hours a week. Am I veering into too much of a #blessedone territory here? Fear not reader, I am a pragmatist. I understand why I do this, why we all do this, some of us are fortunate enough to be in jobs we even genuinely enjoy, or at least are not ambivalent about or outright detest. That work to live, not live to work maxim played out in our daily ritual of sardine packed underground journeys, strange emails where we revert, regards and action things, our lunchtime workouts designed to break up the monotony of the day if we’re fortunate enough to work in a progressive enough workplace. We do this because not everyone can have their dream career, where their hobby is their income, we do this so the free time that we do have can be filled with savings, deposits, relationships and families, our social lives full, rich and varied, boozy and bourgeois. I don’t wish to frame this in the negative, there are parts of our previous life I miss fervently. I miss all the relatively trivial things, but things, nonetheless. I miss a cold draught pint in a pub, that buzz of accompanying ambience, I miss a restaurant, I miss the gym and throwing heavy weights around tapping into my primordial ancestry. I miss that sense of an event that well laid plans create, I miss socialising with a wide and disparate group of friends, the face to face level of communication that even the most enjoyable game of Draw this can’t replicate, I miss a holiday, I miss that sense of adventure and the titillating prospect of the unknown that comes with a Friday or Saturday night out, completely absent from the groundhog day nature of lockdown life.

I don’t think that this sanguine sabbatical of social distancing has been necessary to realise all of this, but it is perhaps its side effect. In response, I have Wim Hoffed every day(including the cold showers, they are horrible) I have worked out like a madman, lifting, running, yoga-ing(mostly DDPY) (#blessedone), I have meditated every so often with the help of Sam Harris’ app (I’m still not sure I get it, I often feel like I’m just sitting down for 10 minutes, #notsoblessed). I have enrolled in online courses, I have become a voracious reader again, more than I ever did in my degree. I have gained a greater appreciation for the relationships in my life. I have spoken to friends, some very close friends, more than I perhaps would have otherwise because you misguidedly feel you always can and you don’t get round to making plans, and now you can’t. I have been confronted with the excesses of my spending on hedonism and begun to at least consider the idea of a humbler income if it allowed me to pursue my interests. I have traded 9-5:30 boredom for a sense of inquisitiveness. I have thought, contemplated and reevaluated. Maybe this is all too #blessed but it is important, it is something I know to be good for me and that I should be doing, and I have been afforded the luxury of time and a sense of incumbent self-expectation to do it.

It must however be countenanced that this is only temporary. My fortunate furlough status may be akin to a Utopian vision of a UBI future where humanity is allowed to dedicate more of it’s time to creativity and self-development rather than work(just without the hedonistic freedom, so it’s not really Utopian at all) but I also know that a lot of my positivity is because this is a novel process, we believe until otherwise told that ‘normal will resume, or even a new ‘normal’ will take hold where at the very least we can emerge from hibernation with masks on our faces and less mass social gatherings and apply our newly learned skills, appreciation for the small things and senses of perspective. But even that isn’t a certainty. Just like 2020 being the year the world changed, so much of what awaits is not a certainty. That’s frightening, terrifying even, and can contribute to that sense of foreboding that can one day have me on a positive keel, and the next have me climbing the walls yearning for the sense of comfort, routine, the hamster wheel merry go round of pre-lockdown life.

No one can predict how we come out this period, as a society or individuals. Will this be a revolution where GDP as the key demarcation of growth and success is replaced my measurements on happiness, mental health and opportunity? Will we learn from our hubris and unpreparedness for a pandemic or will we aggressively seek economic recovery, attempting to consign this whole experience as a nightmarish footnote on human beings’ story of exponential progression? Will I simply shift my focus back to a dispassionate vocation, safe in the knowledge I will again have economic freedom to save, plan for a future, enjoy, indulge once again, or will I use this as not a revolution, but an evolution of how I orient my life? Will all this elucidation end up a mere blur of a blog, relegated to the scrapheap along with well-intentioned new years resolutions?

Only time will tell. The new normal awaits us all.

Toffee

“When a man loves cats, I am his friend and comrade, without further introduction.”

– Mark Twain, Who Is Mark Twain?

The first disclaimer to this blog should be to note that I also love dogs, I love any animal. It’s certainly not a contest, nor should one have a monopoly on the affection it can engender from humans over the other. However, I’m always met with slight shock and ridicule when I controversially declare that I’m more of a cat person than a dog person. When one person recently declared to me that they ‘hated’ cats; that is the entire species, I retorted that a confluent way of thinking would be if I said ‘I hate all (insert ethnicity) people’. That didn’t go down well (especially given this persons ethnicity), although I still maintain my fundamental logic is sound, if somewhat insensitively ham-fisted.

Having grown up with cats though I’m bound to be biased. Every single one that we owned had its own character quirks and individual personalities, all were affectionate to varying degrees and confounded the stereotype that a cat’s love for you is conditional solely on the role of you as food provider.

According to studies, cat people tend toward greater nervousness and moodiness than those of the dog persuasion which also makes sense as I can be a right moody bastard when I want to be. Science also reveals that compared to dogs, house cats still have much more in common genetically with their wild cousins, and have undergone less ‘domestication’ than their canine counterparts due, in general, to being subject to less selective human breeding practices than those deployed on dogs.

As cats continue to spread their seed with wild populations (those lucky enough to still to still have their balls intact, at least), their hunting prowess has remained largely attuned, retaining night vision, or for example the broadest range of hearing among carnivores. Because of this, and unlike most dogs, they haven’t evolved in ways that make them more dependent on humans for food. There goes that stereotype then.

I think that’s part of the reason why I’ve always found cats so incredibly interesting. What other pet straddles the line between domesticated house companion, and wild hunter-gatherer explorer? Cats venture off into the outside world and embark on adventures, and then return of their own volition. I always perceive their love for an owner to be slightly more dedicated and independent than that of a dog, whilst I know the allure of guaranteed food upon their return is a likely factor at play, I still love their paradoxical independence and loyalty.

 

“If animals could speak, the dog would be a blundering outspoken fellow; but the cat would have the rare grace of never saying a word too much.”

– Mark Twain

Toffee passed away on the 13th of July, 2019. I adored that cat. He was the last bastion of my childhood pet life. All our cats that have passed away hit me particularly hard, it’s like a part of your childhood dying in addition to a constant source of love and adoration you associate with going back home. So whilst this blog is devoted to Toffee, a mention is needed for Cleo, Kizzy, Marley, Fudge, Nugget, Pebbles and Bailey all who left an indelible mark on my life, and have ensured that I’ll own cats and provide them with a good home when the opportunity presents itself.

There was something particularly sad about losing Toffee though. A lot of our other cats that died, I was either very young, or still had the others around as some sort of consolation or I was off at University so didn’t see the decline in their health. With Toffee, I always felt he was invincible. The older I got, the older he got, and the less I went back home to visit, he’d always still greet me with the same spring in his step that I associated with him. He didn’t seem to age in terms of appearance or character and I think I’d convinced myself that he’d be one of those rare cats that lives into his 20’s. Just last Christmas he was still the same Toffee I knew, and his decline in health happened rather suddenly over the last month or so.

Knowing Toffee since I was 10 years of age I found it quite difficult trying to recall specific moments about him that I wanted to recount, because I’m sure there were almost too many. He was the most beautiful soul and had so much personality about him.

I remember his ingenuity in being able to open the fridge door with his paw and steal the sandwich meat inside. I remember him most likely being complicit with Marley in the murder of our ill-fated two goldfishes, pawing at their bowl until they must have quite literally been scared to death. I remember him once proudly bringing a toad back into the house and seeing his ravenous wild side tapped into (nature is indeed metal). I remember him cheekily stealing meat from just plated up meals of food and me finding it impossible to get angry with him. I remember his outrageous agility, being able to jump down from my mum’s bedroom window on the shed roof, and brush it off like it was nothing.

I remember his weird quirks and idiosyncrasies when giving and receiving affection, he’d head-butt your outstretched hand and make that wonderful, upbeat purring noise any cat lover will identify with. He’d knead his paws on me when content. He’d get so overwhelmed by a cuddle and strokes that he’d start dribbling and when it seemingly got too much he’d shake his head, sending his slobber flying all over me. He’d be on the kitchen worktop and stand on his hind legs and put his front paws on my shoulders, balancing there for as long he pleased.

 

That’s the saddest thing about seeing any pet decline. When I went back home after my Mum warned he might be coming to the end, I wanted to think that she might have been exaggerating or being overzealous. But after spending 24 hours with him, it became apparent that his time may have come. He’d lost a lot of weight and started to look and feel frail. He’d lost a lot of his appetite, and was struggling to get the little of his favourites of Tuna and Chicken down that he could. His breathing was strained and looked painful, and he didn’t want affection. I’d try and he’d reject it, walking gingerly off to a different area of the room, lying down on his side. He just seemed exhausted. All of those personality quirks that made Toffee who we was, seemed too much for him to muster.

We were lucky enough to be visited at home by Dr Suzen Gregersen who specialises in palliative care for animals and at home euthanasia. I still wasn’t 100% convinced that Toffee’s time had definitely come before she arrived, but when she did within a mere 10 minutes she’d explained that in her 15 years’ worth experience led opinion, Toffee had cancer in two areas, kidney issues and was in some degree of pain and distress. It was when he went and curled up in his litter tray that I knew it was his time. I took at as him giving me the go-ahead. Cats are proud animals and it wasn’t the action of an animal that was happy anymore.

The vet had advised that Toffee might be able to eek out a few more weeks, yet was in a lot of pain and asked me to think about who that would be serving. She did advise that there was no pressure if I didn’t want to be there for him being put down, and that she could come back tomorrow when I’d be back in London. But I wanted to be there for him, just as he’d been there for me since the age of 10, whenever I was sad or happy, offering me unconditional love and religiously sleeping on my bed for my cuddles, even when I’d visit back home from London or Uni.

The vet’s techniques also put my mind at rest somewhat. The fact that she visited your home, and Toffee didn’t need to be distressed by being stuffed into a cat basket and being taken to the vets offered some comfort. She also used a sedation technique before administering the final injection, allowing Toffee to slip off into a peaceful and tranquil sleep, so he didn’t know any better. And so, after bawling my eyes out and regaining a semblance of composure, Toffee was sedated and passed away in my arms that afternoon, as I gave him one final cuddle.

He was allowed to pass away with the exact dignity that he lived. He was the definition of a cool cat (I mean look at that picture) unfazed and unfussed by the invasion of 4 Shih Tzu’s into his home midway through his life. He had such a friendly and loving disposition, made friends with any visitors to the house and I genuinely can’t recall him ever hissing. He was the patriarch of the animal kingdom that resided at 23 Hamilton Close. I will miss him dearly, but I am glad that I had one last day with him and was able to help him pass on with the comfort and respect that he deserved.

There is no grandiose conclusion to this blog. I just wanted to write a tribute to Toffee and benefit from the catharsis of it. So, if you are a lover of cats and/or dogs or both cherish those moments you have with your furry family members. Because that’s exactly what they are. And if you’re not, always remember…

“If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve man, but it would deteriorate the cat.”

– Mark Twain

Oh Sh*t.

 

 

 

 

 

Written at 2:30PM – 17/11/2018

There are moments when you’re sat at home on Friday night as a 28 year old, ostensibly healthy, active young man about to take his first swig of laxative/colon cleanse that you really begin to question your life choices. You haven’t eaten since Thursday night and as I write this now I still haven’t taken a calorie in save for the sugar in my cup of tea. I’m saving myself for a veritable feast and getting this blog written whilst the juices are still flowing(thankfully, not literally anymore).

The above is part of the preparation you have to undergo before a colonoscopy procedure which basically investigates what’s going on your lower and upper bowel. Even though we’ve got smartphones that can track your heart rate and augment reality so you’ve got dog ears on your wanky Snapchat posts, they haven’t invented a scan yet that can see what’s going on in the colon, so it’s this rather invasive, heavily intense preparation laden procedure that’s your only option.

The two days proceeding you have to eat a low fiber diet on day 1, completely fast the next day and then take two substantial doses of some rather putrid, salty tasting liquid to clear yourself out so the procedure can be done effectively. That this final day of preparation fell on a Friday and Saturday when I’d rather be out on the razz served only to compound the life choice questioning. Having this done was something that I really had to push for with my doctors and you begin to wonder whether you’re simply being a hypochondriac. But I’d had some worrying symptoms for a long time that weren’t dissipating and were only intensifying. They were starting to interfere with daily life and whilst not making social situations untenable, there seemed to be certain flare ups intermittently that would make enjoying things that a normal 28 year old bloke likes to enjoy difficult.

If this experience has taught me anything though it’s that if you are concerned about anything, trust your gut(though my gut doesn’t deserve trust, love or anything nice, the bastard) and get to your Doctors. The NHS can really be frustrating from a pure consumers point of view, we all know the strain they’re under and that filters through to you. Long referral times and in my experience  they always want to try and exhaust the cheapest treatment options before going to the more expensive one that might solve the problem once and for all. All of that said, when you do need to call upon them, they are bloody marvelous and we’re incredibly fortunate to have such access to not only health care, but the outrageously talented individuals that work for the NHS.

Onto the procedure, and after a daunting Uber ride and short wait in the waiting room, I was changing in to my attire of classic Hospital gown and some awful Harem style shorts with a hole cut out the back, for ease of access. I’d decided to forgo sedation and before I knew it I was laying on my side in the theater room, gas and air(yep the stuff they give you during labor) in hand. The Doctor was a charming, humorous man and after a quick sit down with him before getting on the table, at that moment in time, there was no one I’d rather have rooting around my insides.

Now the Doctor did slightly fib during our sit down about expected time frames, levels of discomfort and if he was selling me snake oil I’d get him under the trades description act, but I appreciated the effort at making what proved to be a pretty horrific, yet fascinating 30 minutes seem benign. I got bang on the gas and air as he begun and got a bit carried away. 5 minutes in and I felt like I was coming up on the best MDMA I’ve ever gotten hold of but reality soon hit when, instead of deep house and strobe lighting, I saw a screen in front of me with a first person action style view navigating through my internal labyrinth.

Now there’s no way to sugar coat this experience, it is what it is. And it’s horrendously uncomfortable. Just before we started the Doctor informed me that I was about to feel what child birth pain is like, and I’m storing that one up for use with any future wife. About 10 minutes in when all seems to be going far too smoothly, the doctor exclaims ‘Well well, how did you get that there!?’ I turn to the screen and see a massive lump which he informs me is a polyp and likely the reason why I have been in such discomfort for so long. He completes the rest of his traverse through my internal cylindrical maze and happens upon another Polyp, but at this point I think I was in so much pain I must not have noticed.

This is where the fascinating part begins. Discomfort slightly starting to wear off(the Doctor informs me how the bowel ‘just doesn’t like a foreign entrant at the beginning but eventually gets used to it’-I wonder where Bowels would stand on Brexit?) he gets to work on removing Polyp 1. I’ve no idea the deft of hand and touch he must be exhibiting right now, I’m too engrossed in the screen in what must be the best interactive, immersive 3D thriller I’ve ever viewed. He snares the little bastard off with some wires wrapped around it like a high level Jiu- jitsu move and then after a bit of fiddling, gets hold of it in a net that looks like Spiderman’s trying to save Mary-Jane inside of me and and yanks it out.

I let out a sigh of relief and think the torture is over. Mistakenly I turn my head over to see the Doctor and my Nurse audience members ready to gear up for round 2. Before I know it the encore has begun and I’m back watching the screen, like a Marvel cinematic universe post credit scene. This is where the most pain arose because I think mentally I wasn’t prepared for it. Or it’s probably just that there’s a magic camera with tools attached inside of you, I don’t know. He sets to work on the same Spiderman rescue job and after we hit about 30 mins run time on this short film classic, we’re finally done. The Doctor marvels at his work and brings me over the little tub of Polyps to have a look at. I thank him, we exchange a little joke about child birth and I give him one of those real heartfelt handshakes out of respect for his handy work. It was sort of like a scene from that Episode of Friends with Joey and the Kidney stones, but without the comforting laugh track.

I retire to my recovery room and in about 30 minutes, I’m dressed and ready to go. I’ve left the hospital and the procedure with a new found respect for the NHS, and a real sense of wonderment about the talent that are other human compatriots can have. All in all though, it’s a real eye opener that one should pursue good health and take control of their own health. I await the official biopsy results but the Doctor and nurses assure me there’s a strong chance we’ve been able to remove two Polyps that had they been left to fester away, in 5 years could have turned sinister.

And that’s me done, I need to eat.

Average London Pub Experience

It’s time to give some of the unheralded watering holes and eateries in the UK’s capital city their time in the spotlight. Too often, articles online from the likes of Time Out or the Evening Standard will be extensive lists of some the most opulent, ostentatious and plush bars, pubs or restaurants that one might want to frequent in their free time. This is not to say that I think these lists border on the pretentious, far from it! I like a nice dining or drinking experience as much as the next person, but at the same time I often find myself in the mood for something a bit more basic and unrefined, a good old fashioned boozer that you can pop into of a lunchtime, without the need for reservations, for some no frills intoxication, off colour conversation and calorific goodness.

 

The first such establishment to make my list of barely above average destinations in London is The Sussex Arms, a pub located on London Street, just a two minute convenient stroll from Paddington station. A quick Google search of the pub reveals much. First, the website is very primitive, there are simply photos of the drinks and food on offer and nothing like an actual menu in sight. Secondly, the main picture on the website shows the pub way more populated (there appear to be around 20-25 lost souls in there at the time the picture was captured) than I’ve ever seen it in my numerous visits there. Thirdly, the trip advisor page whilst actually surprisingly positive does also encapsulate the more vituperative rhetoric I was expecting. One reviewers account, a Simon W, is as follows:  ‘Horrid don’t go it caters for the chats who stay in the cheap b&b in Paddington. It’s cash only so that tells you a lot I won’t be going back’.

Now, now Simon you miserable twerp, I resent these snobbish comments and I’m going to tell you why. I bloody well like the fact they only take cash. I mean it’s utterly ridiculous given the cashless, technologically advanced society we live in granted, but for me it adds to the charm. I know exactly how much I’m going to spend in there based on whether it’s a 2, 3 or 4 pint visit and I’m also sure that the owners stunning lack of investment in more current methods of payment transaction has allowed them to price their drinks so affordably. That’s right, a pint here will set you back no more than £4.10, a veritable bargain in the sea of the more pricey London pubs that exist these days. The selection is average, with not a craft lager or IPA in sight, and a San Miguel or a Koppaberg about as fancy as it gets, but it does the job for that price. I also end up with change in my wallet, a rarity these days, so I’m all set if I ever need to get a trolley in the supermarket, or on a more serious note see a homeless person that might benefit from me having a slightly cheaper pint at lunch.

Onto the interior and atmosphere. The former is basic, with some pretty gaudy looking armchair style seats and a few tables dotted around also. Luckily, it’s literally NEVER busy in there so you’re never not able to be seated. I’ve probably seen at most 10 people in there at once. Given it’s catchment area of offices and commuters, the public seem to realise it’s a bit of a dive, but damn it, I don’t mind that! It’s like hiring your own private pub for an hour and a bit at no cost. Also adorning the pub is an old school slot machine for the token alcoholic gambler to waste away on and a few TV’s that mostly seem to have the Magic music channel on a loop, playing some pretty shocking tunes. Serving time is almost instantaneous, with no queue ever arising, which means if you’re in a rush you’re sorted. 5 pints of a Friday lunchtime is our record there, and I’m certain that isn’t going to be a possibility in a plush cocktail bar during happy hour. I spent 30 minutes waiting at Dirty Martini’s a few weekends back, and longed for the warm embrace of The Sussex Arms, so have that Simon W!

This is a pub with character and charm. The type of place that without fail, every Friday at 1PM that we’ve visited has its token local patron at the bar, probably already hammered. He’s decked out in a cheap Diadora polo, light wash baggy bootcut jeans and not so box fresh trainers. He looks happy and content enough and nips out with regularity for a fag outside. There’s something just so familiar and comforting about this place, the sort of comfort that takes me back to being at University heading to a morning lecture and seeing the same man, always sat outside the same Whetherspoons, pint and paper in hand. These are the old school, the outliers, the fringes of society and I for one am happy to join them for an hour or so every couple of weeks. It’s the perfect environment to come and sink a few beverages, have a bit of a bitch and a moan about the office and some of the annoying characters you have to coexist with for 70% of your life and the best part of all too is it’s quiet. It might be a sign of my age and that I’m slowly developing into a curmudgeonly grump, but I like a Pub where I can hear myself speak and actually converse. If I want to shout, and uncomfortably nod and just end up politely laughing to end the agony when I can’t hear what someone’s saying but it’s apparent they are trying to be funny, I’ll go to a club thank you very much. My only gripe might be that the toilets are actually too nice. I was actually shocked the first time I went down there. They are clean, modern looking, well stocked with hand wash and toilet paper and reflection in the mirror is clear enough that you can begin to look deep into your own soul and question your life choices.

Which is something many might find themselves doing if they ended up in a place like The Sussex Arms, but not me, I like it there. It should be noted, though I hope it’s already apparent, this is certainly not the place to take a significant other or someone you might be trying to impress on a date. They will quite rightly block, delete and add you to some sort of banned list never to darken your doors again, but gather up your pals that don’t mind a bit of rough, and if ever in the area head on down. Just remember to bring cash and lots of it. The descent into depravity begins here.

Mayweather vs McGregor: Foregone Conclusion or Combat Watershed Moment?

Well, it’s almost here. A fight that at times been described as more of an ‘event’ or ‘spectacle’  rather than a sporting contest, other times much more dismissively labelled a ‘farce’ or a money grab by ex-fighters, pundits or fans. But the time has arrived. Floyd Mayweather, arguably the best boxer of his generation will face Conor McGregor, unarguably the most ‘notorious’ mixed martial artist and UFC fighter of all time.

It’s an event built on the brash, polarising personalities of both fighters. Mayweather, a man of questionable morality and domestic abuse history has built a career on being the archetypal professional wrestling ‘heel’ people want to pay to see get beat, not just because of his outlandish trash talking but because of his increasingly pragmatic and defensively genius boxing style. McGregor is a man who divides opinion with some repelled by his ostentatious, flashy and loudmouth Ric Flair esque persona, others inspired by his rise from rags to riches and his utilisation of Law of Attraction principles.

The riches on offer are of incredible magnitude. The PPV buy record of 4.6 million is expected to be beaten, over a billion people worldwide may watch and both fighters are expected to pocket over $100 million each, Mayweather in his position as the A side likely much, much more. In all of the preamble and hype, the money and freak show aspect has been the dominating line of discourse. The fight will take place as a boxing match and it is expected that McGregor, a ‘boxing’ novice has little chance of denting Mayweather’s 49-0 record that has been built on the defeat of world class boxers such as Canelo, Cotto, Hatton, De Lay Hoya, Gatti, Corralles, Castillo, Maidana and Pacquiao. If these men couldn’t crack the Mayweather code, just how does McGregor stand a chance? Similarly it has been widely agreed that were this fight taking place in an Octagon, under MMA rules, Mayweather would be dispatched with ease under an assault of kicks and takedowns he isn’t trained for. The Boxing match therefore is seen as a complete mismatch.

Another strand of the storyline that exists is the battle between Boxing and MMA, a debate oft had for years since the emergence of MMA into the mainstream consciousness over the last decade or so. This battle finally comes to a head as two of the sport’s biggest stars square off. Boxing, a sport that has seemingly been around since the dawn of time has often seen MMA as an unruly and unrefined threat to its combat sports supremacy. Traditionalists and purists purport that Boxing is the sweet science and more of an art then the crash and bang of MMA. A somewhat snooty narrative of barbaric cage fighting with blood thirsty fans emerged whilst Boxing was held up as a paragon of artistic and stylistic virtue.

This has dissipated somewhat in recent years as the popularity of MMA has grown. But within boxing circles there still exists an ignorance around the varied skill set of the fighters and this has been no more evident in the complete dismissal of any threat that McGregor may pose Mayweather in a boxing ring. It may be the very reason this fight was made in the first place, Mayweather is known for being calculated in his choice of opponent and one would think at 41 and on the brink of retiring with a perfect boxing record he would have picked a sure thing in much the same way his 49th opponent Andre Berto was viewed. However had he done that it would have been viewed with tepid levels of interest and likely cynical derision. In McGregor, in Mayweather’s eyes at least he has the perfect opponent. A man who will bring unprecedented levels of attention and economic benefits the ‘business’ portion of the bout, but a man who in skill set won’t pose a serious threat. It’s a unique way to get to 50-0 and there is no professional boxer out there who would have garnered the same interest or intrigue. The Mayweather Boxing gym will have seen many MMA fighters pass through its doors to train and spar and it is likely that Floyd is confident based on what he’s seen that a mixed style fighter just won’t be able to compete with a specialist Boxer. That same ignorance from the boxing community regarding MMA may be the fatal underestimation that has put McGregor in a position to shock the world.

It’s a big ‘may be’ though. Let me first state I am a massive fan of Mayweather the fighter. I marvel at his defensive abilities and elusive counter punching. What many deride as a boring ‘running’ style I enjoy watching. I think there is a tremendous art to the way he boxes. However, even though he has been the standout performer in his generation of fighters his skills are at an elevated level in the context of the refined nature of Boxing. The sport has been going for so long now that it has established rituals, rules and rhythms to the way it’s combatants participates. Boxing is coached in a certain way, with fundamental do’s and don’ts on technique, positioning and defensive and attacking methods. Whilst you see some nuanced stylistic differences within this framework, Mayweather himself a fantastic example of this, ultimately you will see the same general rhyme and rhythm in boxing and little deviation from this. Boxing is such a well-established almost cultural past time that no one has truly come along and tried to flip that script.

That is until Conor McGregor. Many of the cynics regarding this fight, such as Max Kellerman whose boxing analysis and opinion I often agree with are missing the entire point of what’s going on. You only have to listen to McGregor himself. Like many of his success in his career he’s telling us before the fact. Boxing purists are analysing boxing skill vs boxing skill within the narrow and refined framework of what ‘boxing’ is. If we do this, of course Mayweather wins. But McGregor is not approaching this fight as a boxing match. He is approaching this as a fight, as a Martial Artist vs Boxer. McGregor is a mixed martial artist with primarily a striking style, the reason this fight has been made, but he’s also well rounded in kickboxing, Jiu Jitsu, Karate and Capoeira. Like many MMA fighters these styles fluidly interlock and interchange into the all-round fighting style you see in the Octagon. But McGregor is unconventional in even these terms, blessed with a very long reach for his size, genuine knockout power and utilising a wide Karate based stance, as well as strange Ido Portal inspired movements.

“You must be shapeless, formless, like water. When you pour water in a cup, it becomes the cup. When you pour water in a bottle, it becomes the bottle. When you pour water in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Water can drip and it can crash. Become like water my friend.” – Bruce Lee

McGregor has referenced the above quote in numerous interviews in the lead up to the contest. This is what McGregor ambitiously plans to do. It’s been obvious ever since he decided to not bring in a specific boxing coach to his camp. This was absolutely deliberate. McGregor will not follow the established rules and rhythms of boxing as we know it, and he didn’t want the influence of a coach of those rules and rhythms muddying his mind-set. He will approach this like the martial artist that he is, utilising numerous different styles, stances and movements. It will be a completely unconventional and unorthodox contest and this is what from a sporting perspective intrigues me much more than any of the pomp and circumstance. But I hear you say- McGregor can only use his fists in this fight! Well that’s absolutely correct. But at the same time he doesn’t have to worry about being kicked, elbowed, grappled or taken down. In limitation, McGregor may find freedom. He may become like water and whilst hyperbolic he could change the fight game forever.

Of course, whilst all the above may hold true and McGregor in my opinion will give Mayweather more trouble than many are predicting it is entirely possible that it won’t actually be enough to win. Mayweather is an imperious boxer and despite his advanced years in age, beneath that heel persona lies a consummate athlete and professional and I don’t expect him to have missed a step. This is why if the seemingly impossible occurs I hope that there are no excuses trotted out whether they be aimed at a lucky punch narrative or that McGregor caught Mayweather on the decline. There are some genuinely fascinating implications to August 26th’s bout, ones that could reinforce the conventions of boxing or potentially change them forever. If McGregor’s intoxicating confidence is to be believed he will at the very least be competitive and shut the particularly vociferous critics up, if his true mission is realised he will spread his philosophy of true, varied martial arts in the most shocking of practical demonstrations imaginable. He will cement legendary status and be remembered as a true combat savant. Should Mayweather, as conventional wisdom will tell you, emerge victorious he will retire with an unblemished record, go down as perhaps the greatest ever and ensure boxing’s conventions and disciplines remain reverentially steadfast.

The world is waiting. The world is watching.

 

Be Healthy in Your Relationship with Mental Health

It’s fair to say that whilst, in 2017, there still remains some ignorance about mental health, like most socially progressive issues, we’ve come a long way. The understanding of the impact of mental health is more subtle and well rounded. Gone are the days, at least institutionally of ignorance around the subject. People no longer need to feel ashamed or weak for admitting they have a mental health issue and this is seen in society, all the way from the family to work. At least it should be, as ever with any sensitive issue the loud minority will always have a voice, only worsened by the prevalence of social media. Clicking through to comments on a well meaning meme, Facebook or YouTube video will still reveal rafts of simply offensive comments, that only get worse the more they are debunked and confronted. This however is just par for the course on social media and that’s a topic for another day.

 

One area I do think needs more discussion is on how the direct people, family and friends in the life of that sufferer with mental health issues deal  with this complex issue. The focus of discourse is normally around the sufferer and how they need to be treated and related to, and don’t think for one second that this is an affront to that priority. But, as someone that has a mother who is dealing with severe bipolar, is suicidal in her rhetoric and self harms, my bias does make me feel like a more frank and honest conversation is needed about the impact it can have on sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, husbands and wives.

 

It’s only now at 26, and growing ever maturer and more considered in my approach by the year, that I feel as though I’m beginning to get a grasp on how to deal with my Mum and her health issues. But it’s undeniable it’s had a profound effect on me, in some ways positive and some ways negative, and this effect still can be felt today as her issues are ongoing and certainly not resolved. She’s always had health issues, be it a diagnosis of Lupus and then subsequently Fibromyalgia, and despite this has done a commendable job bringing up 4 rowdy Boys as a single mum. We grew up on a council estate in Brighton, father absent, from a low socio-economic background and all of us are doing much better than our odds would have suggested, me with a degree living and working in London, the other three all with their own families back in Brighton. Despite her many failings, and there have been many, she deserves to be lauded for contributing to us all turning out OK.

But the issues have always been there and have continued to have a fractious effect on our family. She has no relationship at all with my two eldest brothers or their children, after many repetitive periods of acrimonious, vindictive and venomous arguments and conflict. She has a positive yet strained relationship with myself and my other brother, but there is history there, and I often grew exhausted from years and years of being the only one in my family to communicate with everyone, firmly in the middle of feuds, listening to one side bitch about the other to me.

This is where one of the biggest difficulties in confronting her mental health issues have arisen. Where is the line drawn for the explanation of some of her behavior? Where does some of the vindictive, spiteful and twisted actions and speech stop being that and become a result of the manic depressive, chemically unbalanced nature of her brain? Is she just prone to nasty and combative outbursts of action and rhetoric or is it the behavior of someone so tired of being physically and mentally hampered, lashing out in irrational fits because she doesn’t have fully control of all of her faculties? It’s a question that I’ve wrestled with constantly, and I still don’t know the answer. I think that the truth perhaps lies somewhere in the middle, and it’s easier to make that judgement because I know my Mum. I’ve seen the fully cognizant more normal, loving and good-hearted nature that she can exhibit, but I’ve seen the other side too. I’ve experienced it. She possesses a vicious tongue, and the advent of text and email allowed her to perpetuate her venom in new forms; constant and frequent vitriolic volleys of back and forth divisiveness. But I know her history of suffering abuse and rape, yes she has told me about her being raped, and it’s not hard to see how such a history might lead to one being in a constant mode of defense. It is ultimately a tragic situation, she’s been unlucky in life, stricken with physical and mental frailties and it’s taken its toll, in the process in tandem with her own consciousness pushing away many of those who have cared for and loved her.

My brothers have no doubt caught the brunt of this, and have some deep rooted reasons for not wanting to have a relationship with her, and whilst I do wish we would have more frank dialogue amongst ourselves about the effect of her bipolar on the situation, it is not my place to judge. I’ve had my fare share of falling outs and problems with her but ultimately I don’t think I could ever just cut off a relationship with her. She’s my mum after all and in the absence of a catastrophic disagreement or argument I owe her a duty to try and be there for her and show some understanding. Her health though, in recent years and particularly months has started to show serious signs of deterioration, and truly it can be heartbreaking and very difficult to deal with. She is morphine dependent and addicted which doesn’t help, and a recent enforced period of having to go without her drug crutch led to a mental breakdown of sorts. This led to suicidal, self loathing, morbid rhetoric as well as another bout of self harming(something I have had to witness and intervene in before). Indeed, randomly one afternoon she sent me a link to an arrangement she is trying to secure with her doctor in which should she suffer a catastrophic health incident she would not want to be resuscitated.  These are difficult things to hear from your own mother, when even still at 26 you seek some sort of motherly guidance and comfort from her once in a while. This is no longer an option when having a parent who suffers with mental health, and it is a switch of roles which must be appreciated, adapted to and accepted. It is why an appreciation for the intricacies and nuances of bipolar disorder and manic depression is key for anyone dealing with a loved one who is fighting this affliction. This is a tough thing  to do and fraught with it’s own difficulties for you as an individual. Such is the prevalence of the disease sometimes being hereditary you can often wonder if perhaps you are wired the same way at times of stress, sadness and frustration. Whether that is the case, or if the profound effect on me is down to a biological passing or from pure environmental exposure to it, is really quite irrelevant. I know that the positive aspects of my operating system far outweigh the negatives and I have an adept skill of self awareness and control of my own emotions and impulses.

This is a luxury my Mum and many others like her are not afforded. I am sure if you are reading this and have your own experiences with mental health or the mental health of a loved one your opinions and stories may differ and I’d love to hear them. Personally I have finally learnt, and I wish I had sooner that you must treat that loved one with studious care and careful attention. You cannot necessarily hold them to the same standard as someone else in your interactions with them and whilst avoiding being patronising you must resist the instinctual reaction of frustration in favour of being a voice they can rely on for reason and support. It is a tricky and difficult balancing act but in doing so, you can develop and harness your own characteristics of empathy, understanding and resilience that will ultimately benefit you, your loved ones and others in all aspects of your life going forward.

Muscle Meditation

I started training in the gym about 4 years ago, not far into my second year of uni. I’d been a member of the gym before, but it would normally be me and a gaggle of my mates working out with poor intensity, spending too much time chatting and cluelessly performing exercises with little rhyme or reason. I was the exact kind of fool that you and now me, shake our heads at when we spot some joker hogging a machine whilst on his phone.

I presume like many, my first foray into the gym was based on vanity and a desire to impress girls. At Uni I must have paid for two months membership and used the gym once or twice before finally deciding to throw myself into a proper, somewhat dedicated routine. The thing is, the gym can be an intimidating place when starting out, especially on your own. I wish I’d had a friend or brother that had been immersed in it and I could have joined them at an earlier age(two of my brothers have gone on to become huge, built man mountains) but my exposure to their fascination with the gym never quite correlated geographically.

When I say ‘gym’, I am broadly speaking about lifting weights, or more specifically the pursuit of Bodybuilding. Bodybuilding is a strange sport in its essence, competitors pound heavy weights, dedicating specific days to body parts. They delve into the minutiae of their diet and attempt to closely monitor each calorie and macronutrient they consume, all in the attempt to try and develop muscle upon muscle and a ripped physique. One can understand this level of obsession as it relates to professionals who pursue their goals as their career, but it has always seemed strange to me that your average Joe in the gym, lifting weights as a hobby will also try and, to at least a degree, replicate this lifestyle. Then there’s the steroids. I know people that have done them, and quite honestly have never quite understood the point when you’re not competing, or involved in an athletic pursuit. That said, I can actually somewhat understand the appeal and it ties in with the whole motivation behind this crazy gym lifestyle a lot of us lead.

Now don’t get me wrong, there are idiots in every gym. The type of preening fool who legitimately believes bicep curls get the girls, and lifts his fucking shirt up in the mirror to have a peek at his abs he knows full well are there, just so he can derive some kind of macho joy from everyone else seeing and hopefully getting jealous. Then there’s your prototypical meathead who goes to the gym and pumps himself full of copious steroids, decorates himself in shitty tribal tattoos, just so he can go the club on a friday night and walk around like he’s the dogs bollocks and appear intimidating, all the while a man half his size with any type of martial arts training could actually embarrass him should the situation call for it. I, and I believe many others go the gym for other reasons.

I won’t lie and say that I don’t get a bit of a buzz from being considered ‘big’. I’m probably what would be considered on the very, very low end of the spectrum of ‘hench’, and any visit back to Brighton to see my brothers certainly puts paid to any risk of my ego getting out of control, but I’ll get the odd comment from someone I meet and a little internal rush of self satisfaction runs down my spine. That feeling, I think, is extremely primal in its origin. Just as much of the appeal of the gym has become to me. What started off as a desire to simply look better and attract more attention from girls, has over the years morphed into an addiction of sorts, a primal, animalistic release of one’s frustrations, all channelled into something positive, that results in self betterment, and best of all it’s betterment that you can see slowly develop over time. This is why I can actually understand your recreational bodybuilder contemplating the use of steroids. It’s colloquially known as ‘the gear’ for a reason. Imagine if you were a massive Tennis enthusiast. Wouldn’t you want the best gear possible? Perhaps those top of the range trainers, or the latest racquet on the market might just enhance your performance and make you a better player, and thus increase your enjoyment at playing. It’s the same with lifting weights, you sure as hell can’t buy new hands or legs to lift weights. It’s beautiful in its simplicity. A ritualistic battle between your body and a piece of iron, with no variables like teammates, opponents or environment thrown in. Just you vs It. The ability to enhance your ability at that is tempting, enabling you to push your body beyond its natural limits.

It’s always a work in progress of course however. I can be a walking contradiction at the best of times, but my predilection towards a cigarette and weekly drinking don’t exactly go hand in hand with my hobby of choice. I’m often reminded what my brother said in his blog about this very topic(and i’m paraphrasing here) in that the gym for him was a way to ensure that whatever mental deficiencies he may possess he can at least compensate for them physically. That is certainly one of the appeals of it all to me too, and I’d be better served enabling that to become more of a truth with some more smart lifestyle decisions. That said I’m glad I’m aware of my hypocrisy and not blissfully unaware as that would perhaps be more dangerous. Despite trying many a time, I can never be bothered to track my diet that carefully, and will generally eat whatever I want within reason, and shoot for a rough calorie intake I know will stimulate growth. Quite honestly I’d rather enjoy my food than have a rippling six pack and eat brown rice, chicken and broccoli every day. Broscience be damned.

I am however now at the point where I know full well I won’t ever stop lifting weights. My sense of self worth dramatically reduces the more time I spend out of the gym, and a large chunk of my identity is predicated on having some size to my frame. That’s probably spectacularly unhealthy, but it is what it is. Regardless of the physical eventualities from lifting weights, the mental benefits I feel more than justify the effort it takes to will myself to the gym when on occassion I feel like just going home and cotching on the sofa for an evening, or getting that extra hour in bed in the morning. The gym my brother attends in Brighton is a hardcore bodybuilding gym, and has its regulars that attend, all familiar faces if I ever take a trip down there when I’m back home. I think a lot of the guys there enjoy the sense of community and camaraderie that comes with going to a gym like that. They feel a sense of kinship with one an other, a knowing respect as they devote an hour to themselves out of their busy and demanding day to day schedules, to throw some weights around and feel alive.

That’s the overriding appeal of it all to me. My gym, being a commercial chain, doesn’t really have that personal feel where you befriend and network with the staff or fellow lifters. The gym for me is quite an insular experience, and not to disparage the alternative, it suits me just fine. An introvert at heart, that 45 minutes to an hour where I push my body to its limits and blare out my music on my headphones is my ‘me’ time. I don’t think I’d want a permanent training partner even If I could have one. I almost think it serves a meditative function for me. It’s where I can feel truly alive, truly challenged, truly stimulated on a primal, caveman, hunter-gatherer level. All of the bullshit out of my daily life, frustrations with career and relationships either evaporate or are channeled into getting that damn weight up for one more rep. I’ll never be the biggest guy, but damn if I don’t enjoy knowing I’m in better shape than the average guy on the street, knowing that it all came about as a result of hours and hours of effort and dedication. I implore anyone regardless of age or gender to give it a try- its amazing just how rewarding lifting some heavy things and putting them back down again can be.

Wrestling with Hypocrisy

I’m a fan of professional wrestling- there I said it. And no before you get too alarmed, I don’t think it’s real. Astonishingly that still seems to be the stock response when I tell anyone I’m a fan of wrestling. ” You know that stuff’s fake, right?”. I do, indeed, though I disagree with your phrasing- but thanks for the clarification, captain obvious.

Wrestling, for whatever reason , seems to get a raw deal in comparison to other forms of entertainment. The mainstream media still is unable to cover it with any levity or respect, and when the odd article does appear on a mainstream site, it’s sure to be granted with swathes of comments mocking those who watch or enjoy it. Wrestling is a strange business, granted. Perhaps the attitude towards it comes from the fact that until recently, protecting the integrity of the business was still seen as paramount. It was presented as real and legitimate( and still is to a degree), and when it became apparent that the outcome was scripted and predetermined, many levelled the claim that wrestling had deceived its fans, by fixing results. The business didn’t help itself, with instances such as David Schultz slapping reporter John Stossel for questioning him over wrestling being ‘fake’ or not.

While Schultz’ reaction was inexplicable, and only served to reinforce the notion of a wrestler as a steroid enhanced, meathead neanderthal, his anger was understandable. To call wrestling ‘fake’ is an insult to those who perform what is at its essence, a form of art. Tell Adam ‘Edge’ Copeland, who retired recently due to neck issues how ‘fake’ Wrestling is, or how about the wrestler Droz who is now consigned to a wheelchair after an accident in the ring? Mick Foley, also a multiple New York times best seller, is short on a couple of teeth, half an ear, and an ability to walk properly after having brutalised his body in a ‘fake’ sport.

My stock response when greeted with someone’s incredulity to my fandom of wrestling is to question whether they have ever watched a movie or television show. Sopranos? Breaking Bad? Game Of Thrones? How about any of the Godfather movies? Do they enjoy summer blockbusters like Avengers or the recent phenomenon Jurassic World? These too are scripted shows or movies, with actors, directors and producers all coming together to create a product for your entertainment. Yet no one ever seems to question their legitimacy or the feel the need to remind us that they aren’t real. For some reason Wrestling is the exception, yet I see little difference. In fact, I would go as far as to argue that Wrestling’s execution of its script can actually be far more impressive. Yes the acting can sometimes be incredibly campy, and even in ring choreography can require perhaps too much suspension of disbelief at times, but it is all invariably done live, with the luxury of only one take before, a live, raucous audience. Performers don’t have the option of being able to ‘cut’ or redo their lines. If something goes awry in a match, they will have to improvise, unlike a stunt or fight team in a movie who will dispose with that take and start again.

That covers my rationalisation of why Wrestling deserves more parity in relation to other forms of entertainment media, yet I’m also not blinkered enough to not see that at times it doesn’t help itself. Before the WWE’s recent shift towards PG Programming a few years back, and up until Chris Benoit’s notorious murder suicide of his family in 2007, the business was stuck in the dark ages. Storylines could be uncomfortably sexist, violence against female competitors by the men was allowed and often cheered by the audience, and there was an over reliance on shock value or being edgy for the sake of being edgy. At the time of Death, Benoit was discovered to have a brain equivalent to that of a 70 year old Alzheimers patient, along with copious amounts of steroids in his system. This, along with more awareness being gained on the severity of concussions and their long term affect, has led to a ban on unprotected chair shots to the head, and also the implementation of stringent impact testing as well as a wellness policy that is purportedly zero tolerance against performance enhancing drugs. The WWE, at least, has tried to clear its act up somewhat and I believe it’s getting there, though steps do still need to be taken, perhaps most importantly against the ‘independent contractor’ status that employees of the company are classified under, and its tendency to overwork its talent with ridiculous schedules which can amount to over 250 days on the road.

A Mutli-Million dollar corporation, the WWE has branched out from its wrestling roots in recent years. It has a film division, produces its own reality shows and has created its own monthly pay subscription service as a replacement for traditional pay per view. Its empresario Vince Mcmahon, undoubtedly a genius, is still regarded as a carny at heart. There are strange, infamous stories of Mcmahon’s quirks and odd demands backstage. He has tried to replace the term wrestling with ‘Sports Entertainment’, has banned on air talent from referring to a championship ‘belt’ as a ‘belt’ and wouldn’t allow his then WWE Champion CM Punk, to walk to the ring with UFC fighter Chael Sonnen a few years back, because he thought the sport was too barbaric and that someone was going to die in the octagon eventually, despite the litany of health issues that many of his wrestling talent have experienced throughout the years. Mcmahon’s odd behaviour however, is also part of his genius, and informs much of the outrageous creative direction throughout the years that has at times legitimately been captivating, yet also so ridiculous it’s led to hilarity. In what other form of entertainment would you see a man crash another man’s fathers funeral and attach the coffin to his car, driving off whilst said man chases after the coffin jumping onto it, before hilariously losing his grip and falling off in classic slapstick style. Where else would you see a storyline where one man accuses another of necrophilia and murder, and in order to try and get into his adversary’s head simulates sexual intercourse with a mannequin at a funeral home( fun sidenote: the performer in question here was Triple H, Vince Mcmahon’s real life son in law, and this scene was shot with a real life funeral taking place next door, all the while McMahon maniacally barked at Triple H, trying to direct him to make it look more convincing, in his own inimitable style).

That’s the bad side of things( though often it’s so bad it becomes ironically good on reflection) yet when done well wrestling can be so, so very effective. Humour is done with a knowing wink to the audience, who are all, save for perhaps the kids in the audience, all aware of the fundamentals about how wrestling works, and the actual in ring physicality can be brilliant to watch. I’ve often heard it compared to physical ballet, and I don’t think it’s far off. It’s two people, working together to produce something that is almost akin to dance, and when done well can take you on a ride of emotions that gets you lost in the spectacle. I implore everyone to watch either of the Undertaker vs Shawn Michaels matches from Wrestlemania, or any work from the likes of Kurt Angle, Adrian Neville, Seth Rollins, Kevin Owens, or Brock Lesnar and not be seriously impressed with the athleticism and storytelling abilities that can encompass a well done professional wrestling match.

Having once done one 3 hour session learning the very rudimental basics of Pro wrestling, basic holds, how to fall or take a ‘bump’ as it’s known I will always have respect for the crazy, wacky world that it offers up. For the entire week following the session I was in agony and that was after one introductory session, not putting my body through the rigours of life on the road at least 4 times a week. With the proliferation of ‘geek’ becoming more and more mainstream; comic books are as popular as ever after all, I do see wrestling becoming more and more accepted as time progresses. Rolling Stone magazine has started to cover it as well as AVclub, and we are in the era of once ‘nerdy’ & ‘geeky’ things being what it is actually cool. One of the worlds biggest movies stars in the form of Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson still occasionally shows up in cameo appearances because he can’t shake the bug that performing in the ring or in front of a life audience gives him. Wrestling to me has always been something of a live action comic book, and that’s probably why it grabbed me as a kid, and despite a long absence from watching it, it’s hooked me back in, and I enjoy it like any other T.V show, getting interested in certain characters or story developments and not enjoying others. Oh and I mentioned Brock Lesnar earlier, he’s also the former UFC Heavyweight Champion of the world, a legitimate beast, if this article has done nothing to convince you about Wrestling’s place in pop culture and entertainment then just YouTube Lesnar and watch a few clips. Or if pure brawn won’t convince you, look up Xavier Woods, a WWE performer who is currently studying for his PHD in Educational Psychology.

But like I said at the start, the next time someone tells you they like Wrestling, don’t be all high and mighty and think you know it’s fake and they’re stupid because they think it’s ‘real’. They’re probably smarter than you, because you’re busy watching Made in Chelsea, Keeping up with the Kardashians or any number of those awful pseudo scripted ‘reality’ shows, that aren’t actually about anything other than a bunch of vacuous, vapid, attention whores whose heads are full of nothing but empty. I’ll take my ‘fake’ wrestling over that, thank you very much.