I don’t mean in the cooler colloquial way, I mean cold in the most literal chapped lip, minus nine degrees, dark at 4pm way.

Deciding to start my year in Berlin was both a gift and a curse. It made the first quarter of 2026 largely spent inside due to the weather, but it also forced a shift in my relationship with output. And pyjamas.

A …

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I didn’t paint them, I’m not ‘giving goth’, I’m punishing them daily and now my steppers look like roadkill. Why? Running. Not the ‘get a better 5K’ bollocks I was doing last year, actually running real distances. In just over a month, I’ll be running the London Marathon.

Shits. Pants.

26.2 miles of sneaker thumping running. Over the…

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It was a Tuesday and as usual, bob was just another suit on the morning commute. A pleb in an off the rack two piece and sensible shoes. Delaying his painful commute by a few minutes, he skipped the human traffic jam filling the entrance hall to Holloway Road tube station. A delay best described as a short walk and to a queue of a different kind.

Shuffling in place, Bob smiled at the shrinking line.

The barista made quick work of coffee quirks, while Bob rehearsed his order silently. A pick built for efficiency both in its effects and description. “Quad ristretto, topped with a little hot water.”

He wasn’t going to embarrass himself in front of the regulars. People he’d never spoken to, but seen every working morning for the last two years. His travel buddies. Silent, non-communicative, train carriage friends. Sort of.

Coffee in hand, Bob scurried back to the tube station knowing he’d taken exactly seven minutes longer than planned. He’d miss his train if he didn’t move his ass. Mid-scurry, his steps slowed, as what he’d snatched from the collection counter in haste was a cup far too big for his order.

A paper cup made for something milky and laced in syrup.

Something very… un-Bob.

Popping the lid, his shoulders dropped. It wasn’t just the wrong order; it was a coffee topped with foam, peppered with eccentricity. It wasn’t caffeine, it was a liquid assault designed to affront with whimsy.

It was Latte art.

Allowing the involuntary expletives to fly, Bob ranted at the paper cup, until he noticed something strange. The order was topped with latte art, but it wasn’t the expected Rosetta, or Tulip. This ‘foam theatre’ was something far more complicated, a perfectly illustrated portrait. The face of a beautiful bright eyed brunette no less.

It grinned back at him from the cup. The artwork was impressive, but that wasn’t what had ground his size tens to the spot. The face, those eyes, that smile all seemed hauntingly familiar.

Leaning in for a closer look, a bump to the shoulder forced Bob’s hand to jerk, splashing coffee on the concrete. A splash erasing her face…

With time no longer on his side, Bob disposed of the milky muck and begrudgingly made his way back to the station. He tapped his way through the barrier, stamped the escalators and wriggled to the end of the busy platform.

Some did terrible impressions of consciousness, staring blankly into nothing. Others swiped short form slop, effortlessly filling their role in the army of screen-time zombies. Just another morning on the Piccadilly line he thought, as his tiny reserves of optimism continued to empty.

Cheap headphones leaked podcasts and ‘wake me up’ playlists. Bobs belly groaned as the lack of caffeine continued to haunt him. He towered over an older man in a suit, and passed the time counting flakes of dandruff dusting the man’s shoulder pad.

“Tuesdays are shit” said the old man. “Monday’s you dread, Wednesdays the hump, Thursdays you switch off and Fridays, you’re mentally on your deck chair.” Bob offered a polite half smile. A silent agreement.

“Tuesdays are a flat, nothing of a day.” The tunnel whistled as the approaching train threw wind along the platform. The old man turned to face Bob. “Entirely and unforgivingly unremarkable” Bob nodded in agreement as the tube clattered into place at speed.

Double doors parted. Commuters flooded the empty carriage.

Bob made a bee-line for the holy grail. A hard to acquire gift of independence, the end of carriage perch seat. A spot for one, built specifically for the discerning traveller keen to avoid elbow rubs and eye contact.

Old steel squealed. Lights flickered. The tube powered its way into the endless black of the tunnel. A loud snap hit as the tube jerked and slowed. A collective groan filled the carriage as they all knew what was coming. Bad speakers crackled into life as the driver announced a signal failure. News of a ‘pause’ between stations triggered several loud F bombs.

The brakes locked with a long hiss signalling the inevitability of a long wait. Settling in, Bob allowed his need for punctuality to fade. For the first Tuesday in forever, things felt different. First the coffee, that face staring back at him, now this.

The drivers cabin door slowly opened.

From the dark, a main of dark hair cradling a soft pale face appeared. A woman with piercing green eyes scanned the carriage as she stepped out. Her eyes jumped from face to face, in search of someone…

She turned, and with a sudden relief, she’d found what she was after. Bob on the other hand couldn’t work out why she was looking directly at him. She marched over, and stopped uncomfortably close to Bob. Her tone was curt as she snapped “You need to come with me. Now.” A flurry of questions filled his mouth, but failed to find their way out. Bob wasn’t only confused; he was in awe. Her skin was a porcelain dish of milk punctuated with eyes that pulled you in.

Eyes that had done the same earlier that morning… eyes belonging to the face that appeared in his cup of coffee.

“Now” she barked, spinning on her heels and disappearing back into the driver’s cabin. Nearby commuters stared. The old man covered in dandruff watched from his seat. A small smile filled his face, as a nod of encouragement powered Bob to do the unthinkable.

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At some point, the life you built will forever be smeared with your own fingerprints. How that life is lived is a choice. For better or for worse, your career, your partner and to some extent your health, you alone are responsible for. Culture demands visible markers of success, and as vomit inducing as that may sound, I hate to …

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When your entire personality boils down to #eyeroll, what happens when the world moves on from apathy? I say when, but maybe it’s really if. Because the world is changing, and picking a side has never been more essential.

The echo chamber is loud.

You’ve been warned, or to be more specific, bombarded with messaging. If you’re unsure of where you sit, ask …

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Benni raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips.

His reflection filled the rear-view, a baby face trying on aggression. It scared no one, least of all himself. He flopped into his seat. Boredom returned.

He lost minutes watching dust in the afternoon light float and settle on the dash. It filled the quiet, but it wasn’t enough. A tap at the ashtray flipped a lid. A pool of butts stared back. Snatching a half-chugged cig, Benni gripped the butt between his lips. Eyes to the mirror, his mean mug returned, this time a little more menacing.

Unsurprisingly, he’d been here before.

At twelve years old, Benni had spent more than his fair share of long Saturdays with dad. But today was one of those days, the kind where he’d repeatedly be told to “Wait here.” Here being the car, and the wait feeling like forever.

Searching for distraction, Benni scanned the tired interior of Eartha Kitt. A 93’ Lincoln Continental, dotted with dents and rust. Named after the “The sexiest Cat Woman in the history of Batman” Eartha was his father’s pride and joy. But given her threadbare seats and cobwebbed corners, you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

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Benni popped the glove.

It vomited parking tickets between his legs leaving an empty box, all but for one item. From his seat, Benni tried to work it out, but couldn’t. He reached in, producing a mess of knotted plastic. A black grocery bag wrapping something heavy, hard and cool.

He picked at the plastic, unknotting its corners, but before its secrets found the light, a loud thud boomed from the other side of the window. A doorway bounced at the wall; dirty boots cracked the concrete as Johnny made a bee-line for Eartha.

Johnathan, Stephen James was the name on his I.D. A name only said in full by two people, his mother and the Court Bailiff before listing the charges against him. Most people called him John-John, or Johnny for short. A nickname he hated and tried to shake since his teens to no avail. Handsome, unshaven and messy in the way only good-looking people can get away with, Johnny wasn’t a criminal. He was just good at crime.

Charging out of ‘Gold 24’, Johnny stamped the strip mall sidewalk leaving the rinky-dink pawn shop behind him. He folded a wrap of twenty-dollar bills and jammed them in his 501s.

Sliding into the Lincoln with a quickness, he turned the key forcing Eartha’s engine to cough its way back to life. The ‘wait in the car’ portion of Benni’s Saturday was over, but replaced by what?

Koreatown’s unseen filled the windows, as Johnny zipped between buildings and down back streets. Benni watched the worst of Westlake flash by, in dark doorways and huddled between overflowing dumpsters. He dropped the window allowing scraps of nameless strangers in. Seconds of an argument, the cackle of a laugh…

For most kids his age, everything about this corner of Los Angeles was off limits, scary. For Benni, this was everything his mother tried to keep him from, but everything his father threw him into. This was exactly where he wanted to be.

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Johnny never drove to music; he liked the quiet rumble Eartha made. Usually, a car journey with Benni and his father became an interrogation room on wheels. A dad quizzing his only son on school, fights and why he didn’t have at least two girlfriends by now. They’d laugh and talk endlessly about basketball. While Benni would rant about stat-padders and crooked referees, Johnny found a way to make everything about Lebron’s bald spot – because fuck the Lakers.

But, today was different.

No basketball talk, no balding jokes. In fact, no talking at all. Johnny was in his head. He drove the long way avoiding Wilshire, eventually pulling in at the lake. Feet from a cluster of tents, Johnny hopped out of Eartha and slammed the door. Turning back, he barked what had become his trademark instruction. “Wait here”

Once again, Benni and Eartha sat in silence, only now, something new begged to join the gang. It was wrapped in a bag and jammed out of sight. It was in the glove box, but once again, it had found its way back into Benni’s tiny hands.

He checked a shoulder to be sure he was alone. The only sign of life was on the other side of the water; an ice cream truck manned by a disinterested teenage girl scrolling her smart phone. Every other weekend Johnny claimed his allocated time with Benni, time he never missed, forgot or skipped. He made Saturdays their day and filled it with their favourite things.

Usually, the girl in the truck would be fishing around the deep freeze for two Mango Paletas. They’d be sat by the water talking smack about the Lakers; it was the only time Johnny allowed Benni to drop the occasional F bomb, because Fuck the Lakers.

But, today was different.

A performative peal of laughter cut the silence. The kind of laugh a man forces out while telling an unfunny story. Annoyed, Benni threw the unopened bag back into the glove. He clambered to the back seat and waited.

Benni knew that cackle all too well and given its proximity, it could only be a matter of seconds before the days unnerving silence would be a distant memory. Doors slammed as Johnny slid behind the wheel, and a man in Cargo shorts and a T-shirt tattooed with sweat stains filled the passenger.

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Eartha roared as she slipped through gears, cutting up passing cars and running red lights. The untrained ear might confuse their loud, profanity powered conversation as conflict, but for Benni, this was just the way his dad and ‘Uncle Ricky’ communicated.

Gripping a greasy paper bag of Pan dulce, Ricky ripped and inhaled handfuls of sugary dough peppering the car with crumbs. He was portly and fast talking, that permanent kind of sweaty with a constant film of grease on his forehead. Somehow, he smelt like cigarette ash and syrup at the same time.

Bat and ball since pre-school, they were best friends with Ricky happily existing in Jonny’s shadow. He never had a plan nor needed one, because whatever John-john decided they were pulling next, he was riding shotgun.

Ripping across Westlake, Ricky pointed out directions. From the back seat, Benni’s shoulders dropped as his day with dad had become something new and charged with a nervous energy. A day with a third wheel no one asked for.

They had somewhere to be, somewhere they weren’t telling Benni about. Ricky turned to Benni in the back, causing the old car seat to moan under the weight. Bad tattoos peaked over the collar of his dirty t-shirt as he offered the kid pan dulce with a toothy grin.

Eartha screeched to a stop.

Johnny eyed a lot across the street. Towers of scrap metal wrapped the entrance, creating a dark tunnel into a quiet workshop. Johnny took the lead as Ricky silently drank the cool-aid of what sounded like a fool-proof plan. Benni had questions, but he’d only vocalise one.

“What can I do to help?” he asked. Johnny and Ricky turned to their wannabe assistant in the back. “You can wait here” snapped his father.

From his Cargo shorts, Ricky proudly pulled a knife to the annoyance of Johnny. “Better safe than sorry John-john.” He twisted the weapon as its tip pinged in the afternoon sun. Angered by the mere suggestion of things not going to plan, Johnny snatched the knife and threw it in the glove box.

“If we can’t get this done without needing that thing, maybe we deserve whatever’s coming our way” Johnny hopped out of the car as Ricky reluctantly followed unarmed. Popping his head into the open window, Ricky reminded Benni to stay put.

Digging into his deep Cargo short pockets, Ricky fished out a Butterfinger and threw it at Benni with a wink. The two men crossed the street and disappeared into the workshop leaving Benni watching on from a distance. Alone in the car. Again.

Minutes felt like hours as time passed slowly.

Benni made light work of the candy bar and balled up its foil wrapper. Dropping his trash to the gutter, boredom returned. His patience withered as curiosity took its place. The glove box silently flirted with his better judgement. He Climbed over the centre console, and back into the seat Ricky had stolen.

The instruction to “stay put” was clear, but nothing was said about the glove.

He had to know what was in that bag. Decided, he sat up… but before his tiny hand made for the lock, a thud at the door made Benni jump out of his skin. A bloody fist thumped the glass. Ricky screamed from the street while yanking at the door.

“The glove. Pop the glove” he yelled.

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It’s like being forced to attend a party you’d never choose. The food’s crap, you hate your outfit and the company literally put you to sleep. When you finally make it to theatre, you’re surrounded by silent strangers in masks and hair nets.

They clang metal tools, you pretend everything’s fine and before you know it… injection, icy liq…

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At some point it all snaps. It has to.

There’s a point where it breaks. It must.

Boundless belief begins in boyhood, the ball will hit the back of the net.

Winning is the outcome, because why wouldn’t it be?

If the grazed knee is inevitable, the pain is irrelevant.

The man makes it only but so far before the tank drains.

Fumes will not suffice. The engine doe…

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One of those sports stars who’s undeniably talented, but unfortunately, a bit of a plonker. A winner, who speaks in Quotables, with pearls braided into his race day hair. Steph Curry, he is not.

As someone whose interest in sprinting is usually tied to the bigger global competitions, his blip on my radar came from one such quotable. A thought shared during a press conference that seemingly rattled the American sports world.

He publicly challenged the idea that winners of the National Basketball Association (NBA) finals should call themselves “World Champions”, arguing that the U.S based competition isn’t internationally contested, nor does it reflect global interest. “I watch the NBA finals and they have ‘World Champion’ on their head. World champion of what? The United States?”

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As much as pearly braids may be a bridge too far for my personal tastes, his perspective on America’s narrow sporting lens is something myself and the sprinting donut in Spandex can agree on. Basketball has always been an American obsession. A pastime of the Yanks…

As for the rest of the world?

Well, some call it futbol, and none of us refer to it as soccer, apart from those who refuse to engage with what is and has always been the worlds game… I’m of course talking about the global obsession of football.

But what happens if the biggest prize in football’s greatest competition is only accessible during the tiny window of an average professional career? What happens when your nationality can be a gift or a curse as to whether you’ll even have a chance to consider that prize as a possibility?

In recent months that debate has raged and at the centre of the conversation, is Africa.

Over the years, I’ve caught myself in ‘What if’ chat about players from the African diaspora. The choice at the centre of the debate is simple, what would you do? A question layered with sensitivities… obligation, belonging and acceptance. Could you choose between representing your country of birth over your country of origin?

A choice heavy with questions of identity, obligation and ambition.

At the centre of the most recent online debate, is Eddie Nketiah. A 26-year-old Crystal Palace striker with the all-time goalscoring record for the England Under-21 team, with 16 goals in 17 appearances and one senior cap for England.

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Now it doesn’t take a genius to work out that his surname may not have originated in the British Isles, as much like myself, Eddie is the child of Ghanian immigrants. A fact, he’s never shied away from, publicly claiming pride in his West African roots.

With Ghana recently qualifying for the 2026 world cup, and Eddie seemingly frozen out of England manager Thomas Tuchel’s plans, Nketiah’s “open to the possibility” comments have reignited the debate.

Much like many other British born-African diaspora ballers, Eddie chose to pursue a career in an England shirt at youth level, rejecting an approach from the Ghana Football Association. With Eddie seemingly open to the idea if invited, there is no official agreement or call up as yet.

While international limbo may be the case for some, Eddie’s former Arsenal teammate Alex Iwobi made a choice early in his career, and he’s stuck to it. Alex chose to represent Nigeria over England due to a strong emotional attachment to his home country and the influence of his uncle, Nigerian legend Jay-Jay Okocha.

Iwobi played for England’s youth teams up to U18 level, before making the switch in 2015. With a competitive debut for the ‘Super Eagles’ in 2016, Iwobi has been vocal about never regretting his decision, with a desire to emulate his uncle’s legendary status in Nigerian football.

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With Nigeria failing to qualify for the 2026 world cup, Iwobi’s international switch has become a change with world cup consequences…

Much like Eddie and Alex, Antione Semenyo was born in the UK, but never involved in England youth football. Semenyo chose ghana first when called to join the ‘Black Stars’ in 2022 while playing for Bristol city in the Championship. Fast forward to 2025, and Antione is in the middle of a breakout Premier League season as one of the league’s top goal scorers so far.

His prolific form has fuelled widespread transfer speculation, linking him to clubs like Liverpool and Manchester city making his world cup presence not only guaranteed in a ghana shirt, but a showcase for his talent during a summer while the world is watching.

Given the long-term ramifications, choosing a shirt is about so much more than allegiance. If Eddie, Alex and Antione are anything to go by, it’s a career choice.

Let’s play a game of what if.

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What if just some of the talent who chose to play for their European country of birth, played for their African country of origin… what might those African sides look like? How do you think that could shape the world cup? Would we have already seen that ever elusive African world cup victory 1.55 billion African people have been waiting for?

What might Nigeria, Ghana, Cameroon and Senegal look like if the draw to play for African sides were as big as European ones?

NIGERIA

Bukayo Saka: England

Jamal Musiala: Germany

Manuel Akanji: Switzerland

Karim Adeyemi: Germany

Eberechi Eze: England

Tammy Abraham: England

Noni Madueke: England

GHANA

Memphis Depay: Netherlands

Jérémy Doku: Belgium

Cody Gakpo: Netherlands

Jérôme Boateng: Germany

Callum Hudson-Odoi: England

Jeremie Frimpong: Netherlands

Danny Welbeck: England

CAMEROON

Kylian Mbappé: France

William Saliba: France

Youssoufa Moukoko: Germany

Bafetimbi Gomis: France

SENEGAL

Leroy Sané: Germany

Ousmane Dembélé: France

Moussa Dembélé: France

Leroy Sané: Germany

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I’m not naive to the small print of pressure, personal preference and infostructure. Youth development pathways, profile in elite competitions and family ties in the UK. Its ALL valid in the choice these young players make…

But the question remains…

If it were you, what would you do?

Large.

Not medium. Large.

Ordering small is a lie I’d prefer not to tell myself, so large it is. In America, butter popcorn is a thing. Melted butter, poured over popped corn. Pass. You’re gross. Hang your head in butter drenched shame.

I could care less about your Minstrels or M&Ms debate, your Tea, Coffee or Water preference. And don’t get…

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Snow angels, Snow Cones, Snow Men.

This shortlist of snow related ‘fun’ may trigger happy memories for most, but not this guy. Snow angels? No. They’re the smack received for covering my new coat in dirt when I was six. Snow angels can do one.

Snow cones? Brain freeze.

Snow men? A serial killer waiting for the spell to be broken, so he can finally return from the dead, and take our lives with his carrot nose and piercing raisin eyes.

I’m not a fan of the cold.

My holidays have always been shins out and shorts on. Linen flapping and sand between toes. But not this time. This trip is going to be different. This last decade I’ve embraced the countryside jaunt, seen the northern lights and experienced the pinch of minus temperatures while paying for the privilege. Travel is starting to look a little… different. Not quite Ozempic different, but nose job, filler and a new wardrobe different.

I can work with this.

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So, I needed a break, I had a destination, and I was wearing more layers than I’d like. I was prepped, caffeinated and in transit. I flew to Zurich which in recent years has proved to not like the idea of me passing through. My last trip, featured a grounded flight because of yes, you guessed it; snow. A ‘cold snap’ decided to Thanos my plans, forcing my hour in Zurich to become 24. It snowed. A lot. I dragged my suitcase through snow. I got a chest cold.

I’m not a fan of the cold.

But this time was different. Transit was smooth, I ate my body weight in dried mango and suddenly, I was in a branded people carrier being forewarned of altitude increase and thin air.

My boot hit the ground. I couldn’t help myself as I did the London thing the minute I stepped out of the car… “What’s that smell” I asked, “Fresh Air” was the gentle reply, said with a smile. My smog riddled lungs had showed my hand and now had no choice but to recalibrate…

I was in Adelboden.

A village in the Swiss Alps known for year-round activities and picturesque views, famous for its Skiing, hiking and mountain related shenanigans. I was expecting a log cabin with ‘rustic’ quirk. I received a lot more.

For the duration, I stayed at The Brecon; a twenty-two-room, Timber clad hideaway with mid-century modern style. Before I’d even made it to my room, I was touching wall finishes and asking about glass wear. I was that person.

Designed by Amsterdam design studio, the Nicemakers, the place was buzzing yet never crowded. My room had insane views of the Lohner mountains and a pine forest, so staying in was a seriously considered option. Stewing in the dressing gown after a long shower whispered my name like a 90s R&B intro… but no. Snow tipped mountains were literally at the foot of my bed.

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They bounced afternoon sun, showing off lush greens announcing the season as perfect for hiking not Ski. I had no choice... so, I laced up and obliged.

I was given a map.

It had a route scratched in pen. There were options presented by a helpful receptionist knowing my ‘hiking boots’ were more fashion than function, making the easier walk my likely choice. I set off and it was beautiful. The sun gave me something to smile about until I hit the cross road. I checked the map. I turned the map. I consulted my phone... I turned the phone. I was that person.

Then. Snow.

Sideways, ‘welcome to Switzerland’ snow.

I’m not a fan of the cold...

But if ever there was a time to engage with the elements, this was it. I had on the gear. I had on the boots. I looked the part, but could I actually do the walk and make it back in one piece? I picked a lane and powered forward, the Vim lasted all of thirty minutes uphill, before I found a bench and told myself I was taking in the view… not resting these knees.

That’s when I met Christine and Heret.

A couple who stopped and chatted, largely because they were friendly, but their smiles had a sprinkle of quiet concern. I was a sweaty mess. The tourist sat on a bench with a thousand-yard stare. We joked and talked everything from family to work. They led the way and I was quickly back on track.

The Londoner with the stupid snood, finally had a local living Sat-Nav.

As the couple powered forward, Christine’s Fluro pink jeans became my life line. She not only led me the right way down the mountain, her partner Heret left arrows made of twigs in the dirt to ensure I didn’t get lost at the next cross road.

As they disappeared on the horizon, I had to double check my phone to make sure I hadn’t imagined their kindness and to be totally honest, existence. I hadn’t gone mental. I had a photo. I had to laugh…

Then for some strange reason, the snow stopped and the sun came out. In mere minutes, it was all hot chocolate and pastries in the village, rendering that sideways snow, the mountain bench, that cold a distant memory.

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That night, back at the Brecon, the four-course dinner I inhaled was not only incredible, but soundtracked by laughter and loud chat in four different languages. The buzzy and busy dining room was full of couples and groups of friends enjoying what wasn’t coming as a surprise to them, because I was the only newbie in the room.

Switzerland was special, Adelboden will see me again, because I have a lot more to explore. Apparently, I’m one of the last few to find out. Guess I’m late to the party. Again.

It’s all fun and games until the Aux gets passed your way.

You plug in.

You hit play...

This is the moment where your people will forever see you as a fuck up, or the bastion of taste you’ve convinced yourself you are. In a moment of haste, your song choice kills the chat. It sends the vibe into a new and undeniably wonky territory. Friends sud…

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Respectfully.

Poor guidance is the necessary evil that coming of age teaches you to circumvent. A rite of passage if you will. It’s a reminder to return to gut and passion, not being steered by a lame duck. It’s the reminder to lean into a strong sense of self.

Sometimes pep talk…

I recently caught myself word vomiting into my notes a…

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Productivity is a default setting I wish I could un-program, but like the sketch your unfunny uncle still quotes, computer doesn’t say no, it says piss off.

Today, the version of me that exists in this house, in these socks isn’t the one that always does the thing. I mean, I do get shit done, but sometimes… dressing gown. Slippers… tea.

Sunday.

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I could light the candle. The good one on the side that ain’t cheap, and I’m too cheap to buy it, so when it came as a gift, I did my dance. It’s the expensive treat I don’t have to pay for, but want to save for the perfect moment because now isn’t special enough. Apparently.

I lit the candle.

I made another tea. I pressed play on the playlist…

The feed does the opposite to my brain.

The couch feels like a safe space I should make friends with. So, I do. Again. Somehow, the endless scroll delivers on promise and a spiral into the thoughts and selfies of terrible people remind me to eject.

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I cleared my throat and the applause died.

Then it was silent. The kind of silence that somehow has a scale to it. The kind of silence that comes after the first time you fart in bed with your new partner…

It lasted an eternity.

I was in a creased, egg-yolk-yellow Tommy Hilfiger shirt that was two sizes too big. My step dad insisted I tuck…

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Not chunky doo-doo braids like my sister. Pig tails.

Chantelle was my play cousin. If you’re from where I’m from you’ll know what I mean; essentially, a sibling who isn’t blood, but your mum’s mate’s kid who might as well be family. So, if you’re allowed out to play and anyone asks? That’s your cousin.

Chantelle was younger than me…

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I had a girlfriend who wouldn’t let me leave the house in a pair.

For the record, I’m not a free-balling heathen.

I too enjoy a fresh pair of Undercrackers, particularly when wearing that special colour of jersey with a talent for outlining the Schlong. Her paranoia? Unfounded. The grey sweats stigma? Temporary.

For me, grey sweats will forever be linked to exercise, not being a cock print exhibitionist.

The work out in question isn’t my ongoing attempts at a 10K. I’m referring to a fictional character and his iconic brand of training. A man so burnt into the collective conscious, his outfits, love interest, failures and successes may have first appeared on the big screen fifty years ago, but somehow, they’ve endured.

When I think of grey sweats, I think of Rocky Balboa.

Funnily enough, when I think of Rocky… Boxing isn’t the first thing that comes to mind...

Around fifteen years ago, I finally grew a set and did the thing I’d been scared to for years. I decided to write a screenplay. I’d never set foot in film school; I didn’t have the software to format the thing properly. I hadn’t read a single screenwriting book, but I sat down and did it. I wrote. I wrote. Then I wrote some more.

It was shit.

It was a hundred and thirty pages of faeces.

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I’d farted out a crappy rom-com on Microsoft Word, a movie no one asked for, but a movie I needed to get out of my head. Why? Sylvester Stallone… I saw an interview where he explained his journey from wannabe, to the Oscars with his first script.

The more I read into his story, the clearer it became that the real Rocky was baked into the story behind its creation. A story about a man so broke, he starred in Porn to pay bills. A man so determined to write with no distractions, he painted the windows in his apartment black and locked himself in.

The real Rocky story wasn’t in the screenplay, it was lived by the man who wrote it.

Today, Sylvester Stallone is remembered as the face of 80s action. A man synonymous with mindless box office smashes that put bums on seats and money in the bank. Rambo was a blood bath and Rocky was the sweat and steroid fantasy.

Right?

Well, when I heard Stallone speak about Rocky Balboa, and the thinking behind Rambo, I knew I needed to re-watch both. A double bill later, I was sat in silence because I hadn’t just watched movies, I had so much to think about given the films I’d seen.

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One was a post-Vietnam deep dive on trauma and disillusionment. A story of survival, embodied by the ghost of Americas wars. The other was a blue-collar philosopher, an everyman riddled with stubborn hope and a refusal to give up.

First Blood began as a Novel by David Morrell in 1972. The movie saw a Sylvester Stallone rewrite of the Michael Kozoll and William Sackheim script a decade later. A collaboration that only truly exists because of Stallone’s work on Rocky.

An entirely solo pursuit.

In the early seventies, Stallone was barely surviving in New York. He was an out of work actor getting doors slammed in his face. Turned away by casting directors for his ‘odd look’ and slurred speech; the result of a partially paralysed lip from birth.

He was sleeping in bus terminals, taking every job he could find. From cleaning the Lion cages in Central Park Zoo, to bouncing at clubs, he did whatever it took to survive. Even appearing in ‘The Party at Kitty and Stud’s’ a soft-core porn movie that paid a measly two hundred dollars.

Then came the fight.

The moment he witnessed a nobody put the greatest on the canvas.

Muhammed Ali fought Chuck Wepner, a club fighter nobody believed in. That so called ‘bum’ shocked the world when he knocked down Ali. Wepner’s fighting spirit remained, regardless of the little belief in his chances. He lasted fifteen rounds, earned the respect of his peers and endured relentless punishment, simply to prove he belonged.

Stallone then locked himself away in his tiny apartment and painted his windows black. This effort to shut out the world delivered, as three and a half days later he had the first draft of a screenplay he’d named Rocky.

He had a hundred dollars to his name.

He sold his dog Butkus for forty dollars, because he couldn’t afford to feed him.

Then he started taking meetings about his speculative script, and straight away he received offers to buy it. First it was $20,000. He said no. then it was $25,000. He said no. Then it was $350,000 and even with barely a hundred bucks to his name… he said no.

Why?

Every offer arrived with the caveat that they’d take his writing, but not him as the star. So far as he was concerned, this project was his first and potentially only chance to lead a movie.

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Eventually, producers Irwin Winkler and Robert Charthoff saw something in his conviction and found a million dollars to make the film. Sly would earn $23,000 for writing and acting, barely making union minimums, but he finally had what he’d fought so hard for. A leading role and a movie in production.

He bought back the dog he sold for $40 for $15,000 as a thank you, and made Butkus Rocky’s on-screen pet in the film.

Watch the film.

Sly’s fictional Muhammed Ali was ‘Apollo Creed’, a vivacious world champion who ultimately becomes a side show to the love story. The central character learning to love himself even if the world only loves him when he’s taking punches to the face.

It’s about love.

About almost beating the champ, but caring about the belt because all you want is your woman. It’s about a man and woman trapped in their worst selves, only able to be better and free by helping each other become those things.

It’s about Rocky learning to feel worthy, saying no to fighting the champ, not because he’s not ready, but because he doesn’t feel he’s deserving

The shitty apartment, the dog, the desperation, the doubt… that’s all Stallone. The line between creator and creation is blurred. He created a character that would lose the fight, but win back his self-respect.

Rocky went on to be the highest grossing film of the year returning roughly 235 times its budget of just under a million dollars. Adjusted for inflation, Rocky’s box office haul would equal to well over one billion dollars today.

Watch the film.

Not just because it’s a three-time Academy award winner.

But because Rocky was never about boxing.

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It’s that energy that typically delivers ‘that feeling’.

It’s a heat that bubbles and builds in your chest. A slow swarm that can’t be ignored. I recently learned, that feeling is best described as creative vertigo.

Creative vertigo is the disorienting, dizzying sensation that smacks you in the cho…

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It should have put me off as I was six, it was the eighties, and boys didn’t mess with Pink. Apparently.

Regardless, I was excited. Already making plans as to how I was going to use it, even though ‘it’ wasn’t bought for me.

The ‘it’ in this scenario was a skinny rectangular box made from the cheapest plastic, Perspex and copp…

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