Fight 2 .... Eamon gets a little angry!

And so it begins.

Earlier in the week I had the first chance to fight in a full contact sparring session. Dave caught me with a powerful left hook into the ribs that I'm still feeling 3 days later. Last night however the fear disappeared a little and I fought twice. Attached is the first of the fights. As you can see I could breathe for the first minute or so but then luckily (sorry Gavin) Gavin had to stop with a bloody nose.....another 30 seconds and I'd have cut myself to ensure I could rest!!! Unfortunately there was no rest and Zack put Eamon straight into the ring and I had to carry on....I'll upload that fight too. Both will need to buffer for you and make sure the music is loud as you watch!!!

By the way I also have a great video of the girls fighting but as they look SO much better than me at this lark you'll never see it!

The Real Mr. Austria

When my buddy Paul sent me a mail and asked if I'd join him and the Swiss management team to look at their business in Zurich I had no hesitation in accepting. When he then said that we'd have part of the meeting in their office but the last 2 days in the Austrian Ski resort of Ishgle it was just icing on the cake. You see although I ski like a 60 year old blind man and I snow board like his dad, there's something about being in the mountains that is just special. So I packed my bags, excused myself from boxing training for a couple of sessions and promised Zack that I'll do some altitude training in the mountains. The plan was genius. They can ski while I run and do press ups in the thin air! It almost worked too! I impressed everyone, not least the hotel owner who had to open the doors at 6.30am, when I got up early and ran on the first morning. At this stage we were still not on the piste but in the resort and so I thought running would be a doddle. About 75 meters later I was out of puff. It was incredible. I literally ran for about 10 minutes before walking back to the hotel gym where I posed in front of the mirror for about 30 minutes more. I later found out that the resort itself was at 1500m and so there was no real shame was there?!!

That day up in the mountains I decided to snow board instead of run but after a couple of falls I thought it best to step off the board and walk / run on the second day. This proved easier said than done. I did enjoy a particularly beautiful and energetic walk down the piste after taking the lift up but when I decided to run it became clear that my body wasn't really as fit as I'd hoped. I ran for less than 30 mtrs before losing all ability to breathe. The rest of the afternoon was spent in the caf with a comforting hot chocolate nursing my battered ego.

If nothing else the break gave my body some time to rest after quite an intensive 3 weeks of training daily......that's my excuse for doing very little and I'm sticking to it!

Curry and Crunches

For many years now I’ve considered myself a tough northerner. Ultimately up north we think we’re different. We’re harder, flintier, and steelier. We’re the ones that turn the air conditioner down in the meeting room, who want to sit outside the pub in Manchester in December, who order the hottest curry and who wear the slightest tee-shirts in the blistering winds of Blackpool in the winter. Ok, nowadays we play up to this stereotype occasionally and for us traitors that have since moved south (as far south as Dubai) we occasionally like to remind people how hard we are and how soft the southern Jessie’s truly are. Even the most sophisticated of Northerner who now lives in the sunshine, who owns a Gaggia Cappuccino maker and has sun dried tomatoes in his cupboard, fundamentally harbours an inner barbarian with a molten core of prejudice that sometimes just likes to pop its ugly, flat cap covered head, out. So, when the training regime changed this week and I checked my diary to see how it fits against my work schedule I shrugged my shoulders and said hey ho, I’m hard and I can handle it.

The new schedule meant that I had a 6pm ring session last night that ended at 7.15pm, a dinner with an Irish colleague that started at 7.30pm and then a 5.15am start this morning for a fitness and ring session until 07.00am.

We decided to go for an Indian meal in the Marina. This was a mistake. At midnight as I was tucking myself in for my 4 ½ hours of sleep before the gym I could feel the Lamb Biryani and the Dal Makhni whispering warnings of the trouble to come. I made it out of bed to the gym on time and into about the first 15 minutes of the session. And then it started. The curry sweats. The gradual rise of spiciness up my esophagus. The dread of the thought of puking in the middle of this hard man’s gym. I pushed as hard as I could, I smiled manfully at Richie as he made us run some more, punch some more, skip some more. I wiped off the pools of sweat around me and I busied myself by trying to think of anything but Indian food. But then words I could really have done without. “OK, on your backs, and give me 25 sits ups, 25 leg crunches and 25 ab crunches.” To compound this he made us do push ups in a wheel barrow style with someone holding your ankles.

The pain was unbearable. Normally Indian food can cause the worst cramps possible but compound this with what I went through early this morning and the hard man was broken. When he finally said “OK give me 5 laps of the gym and then warm down” the food was literally at the back of my throat. I swallowed hard, smiled dutifully, jogged 5 laps slowly, and then went into the bathroom to taste my curry again. It’s not as nice second time around.

The lesson is clear. Curries and Nan bread = good. Curry and crunches = very, very bad.

Super Maid

The maid has lifted the punch bag out of the car by herself and left it in the hallway.

I don't want to talk about it.

The Sport of Warriors

After a few false starts, last night I finally got into a ring and started actual boxing training. You'll notice I said last night. The plan was that I'd write a note about the training when I got back but I really couldn't. Everything tightened up and I ended up just sat in the bath for an hour. I also needed to be up and in the gym by 7.30 to meet up with Ronnie. Boxing training will now be every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday at 6am and then again at 6pm - 6 sessions a week. I'll then be with Ronnie in between and have Fridays off.

The first thing to say is that I was SO happy to see the boxing gym. We live in such a sanitised environment in Dubai, with everything shiny, clean and new and I had thought the gym would also fit into this Dubain mold. It doesn't. It's a dirty, smelly, testosterone filled den of blood and sweat. As you walk in the sound of gloves on leather and loud rap music engulfs you and gives you an extra step. There are no niceties for a new boy training for a one off fight in an environment of tough men who either train for fights or could fight if push came to shove. Within a minute of being in there Zack, my new boxing trainer had me skipping "until I tell you to stop". He didn't tell me for ages! This was followed by running laps around the gym, press ups, sit ups, crunches and other painful exercises aimed at warming every inch of your body.

Then they gave me my kit. However lucky you are in life with possessions or finances it always feels nice to get something! In my kit bag were a pair of Blue Lonsdale gloves (told you they were the best!), some hand wraps and a head protector. It was then time to get in the ring for my first go at punching. It's not easy is it?! My trainer was a short, incredibly nimble bloke from Ghana called Richie. He showed me the correct stance and we began with left jabs. Lots and lots of left jabs. Then Right hooks, then left jab right hook, then double jab, right hook then 4 combinations then 6 combinations....you get the picture by now I guess.

Ring training is in fight conditions and so you train for 3 minutes, a bloke rings the bell and you rest for 30 seconds, he rings it again and another 3 minutes punching. It went on like this for about 30 minutes by which time I could hardly lift my 18oz gloves let alone left jab or right hook. The final bell rang and Richie said "well done, now get on the floor and give me 50 sit ups". If he wasn't so hard I'd have kicked him.

For the first time since the saga started I'm getting the feeling that I'm going to enjoy this. I wish I could explain why. Last night punching Richie's padded hands hurt so much it's indescribable. The risk of someone else hitting you hasn't even entered the training yet and so that adds that extra bit of spice to proceedings. Having said that I loved the boxing gym. It was a room filled with Men, with a capital M, who, for whatever personal reasons, feel the desire to box.

I read an article on the psychology of boxing this week and in it the author states that "boxing is not a sport you play. It's a sport where you can get hurt. Boxing is a sport for warriors, those that are strong both mentally and physically. We will all face fear and doubt but with dedicated training and experience we learn to quell these feelings. When fight night comes the wait in the locker room is enough to break the average man. Most men have never been involved in a fair one-on-one fight. Most have never been punched in the face. For this reason, most cannot comprehend the feeling of sitting and waiting to do battle with another man, whose soul purpose is to knock you out. He has sweat and bled in the gym for one reason, to hand you defeat. You must face this challenge alone. Your friends and family can only watch from outside the ring."

Today I hurt. Part of that is due to the boxing last night and part due to Ronnie this morning, but you know what, today I've also realised that I can actually do this. No one is going to stop me and no one is going to get in my way. The sport of warriors has a new son, at least for the next 9 weeks.

PS: the punch bag is still in the back of the car....Dave hurry up and come back to Dubai will ya!!

Just wait till I hang you up....

I've just got back from my second session with Ronnie. I'd love to say it got easier but it really didn't. Today there were no niceties of skipping and rowing. As a warm up he had me running fast at 12.9km/hr (not sure why 12.9 and not 12.8 or a round 13!) for 10 minutes! It was then straight onto weights, weights, weights and more weights. To end on a jovial note he then decided on sit ups and ab crunches and reverse ab crunches and this HORRIBLE thing where you lie face down and just lean on your elbows and keep your body off the ground for 45 seconds. I'm typing with 2 fingers and these are the only things that I can actually move at the moment.

However, the pain of today, the knowledge of tomorrows impending pain and the fear of Saturdays 10am session with Ronnie are not really my biggest issue at the moment. I seem to have a bigger problem. You see I thought that it would be a good idea to buy a punch bag. I therefore ventured into Go Sports who, for some unknown reason, are currently having a boxing equipment promotion! My in depth knowledge of boxing (actually its because I read the hotel brochure in Lord Lonsdale's Spa where I stayed in the Lake District last year!) made me aware that Lonsdale equipment is the best boxing stuff money can buy and so I opted for their biggest and meanest looking punching bag. Having chosen a particularly colourful set of yellow boxing gloves that not only look good alongside the bag but match my favourite training vest (shut it!), I forked out my cash and 2 of the shop staff carried the bag onto a trolley and into my boot.

That was 3 days ago. I can't get the bastard out of my car. I can't lift it and I've got too much pride to ask any of my neighbours. I'd hoped the Gardener could help me this morning but to be honest I don't think he could actually lift the gloves let alone the bag.

It's a problem and the only mate I have that I think could actually lift it is in the UK for another week. I'm considering just leaving it there and punching it as it lays in the back of the jeep, that'd teach it a lesson!

Anyway, if anyone is passing Cluster 45 in Jumeriah islands and wants to help out please knock on the door, speak to the maid and I'm sure she'll give you a hand where she can....I'd love to help but my two fingers are pretty knackered after all this typing!

I'll give you more if you cry.....

Sometimes stuff happens that really makes you proud to know the people you do. Yesterday I sent a mail to a select number of my friends, family and close contacts. I'd decided that a good cause to raise money for with the fight would be the orphanage we support in Sudan and a good aim would be $4000 in order to build and equip a new ward for 12 babies. Within 2 hours of sending the mail the $4000 had already been reached and exceeded. It really is incredibly touching and I can't thank everyone enough. Obviously now we need to aim for 2 wards!!

So that y'all don't think I'm turning into a soft southern git I thought I'd better just caveat these comments with my favourite responses that I received yesterday.

Firstly Paddy came up with the double sponsorship technique - $30 for the fight and an extra $50 if I knock him out!

Then Stuart wanted to know if he still had to pay if I died!!! Nice!

Favourite of all was Daron's genius of target based sponsorship. $50 to fight, another $50 if I pull his shorts down in the ring, another $50 if I kick him, $100 if I bite his ear, $50 more if I make him cry, $100 if I cry......etc etc. It's absolutely brilliant. I can't wait for my next bonus setting meeting with Daron!!

Seriously, guys and gals, thank you so much. Thanks to your generosity all of the pain and all of the aching bones will at least now mean that some kids are going to have a little bit of a better chance of life.

Ronnie Austria

I had every intention of writing a note about how cool the name of my trainer is in my normal sarcastic manner. I'd spent all day thinking of stuff to write but honestly I can't. Let's start at the beginning. After my experience in the gym last week I decided to attend a Boxercise class. It taught me two things. Firstly, I'm not actually that unfit. My cardio exercise abilities are just about the way they should be for my age. Secondly, there is a part of my conditioning that seriously needs some work, namely the fact that I punch like an 80 year old asthmatic grandma (with arthritic hands). It's clear that this slight shortfall in ability may leave me open for criticism in the ring and so I needed to build some strength. I therefore decided to hire the services of a professional personal trainer to build me up. I looked around the gym, chose the hardest looking trainer, told him my predicament and thankfully he agreed to work with me (for a small fortune each day!). Then he told me his name was Ronnie Austria and my afternoon was made.

Today was my first session with Ronnie. He started by conducting a set of tests that basically proved what I thought, I'm not that unfit but any excess weight I'm carrying is basically all fat and flabby. When I took my top off he laughed. Bastard. He said we have to focus on building my core (read, lose the flabby gut) and strengthen my arms. And then it started. Running, press ups, sit ups, weight lifting, rowing, skipping (yes skipping!). It was an hour of absolute hell. He pushed me to my very limit, a little bit past it and then re-booked me for 5pm on Wednesday to do it all over again!

After he pulled and stretched me to revive my aching limbs. I sat in the changing room for about 20 minutes. I stood in the shower for 15 more minutes and then I tried my hardest to lift my arms into my shirt before hobbling very slowly to my car. Where I sat for 15 minutes more.

I know I'm going to really struggle to get out of bed in the morning and that everything will hurt even more than it does now but the fact that I have to do it all again in 48 hours is scaring the shit out of me. As the Fine young Cannibals once said (almost) "Ronnie, I'm sorry won't you let me stay at home?"

PS: If you click the title you should see Ronnie, he's not one of the women or the bloke in the funny costume but the guy on the right with the "I'm gonna break Naz look" on his face.

Why all the mirrors?

Today I got a text from John telling me formal ring training won't start for another week due to a delay in the equipment that's coming from the UK. I decided that it was time for me to start to get in shape even if the punching part will only start next week and so I skulked back into Fitness First with expired membership card in hand.

Now, to their credit, they didn't laugh as they scanned the card that undoubtedly showed that in its one year of validity I came in about 4 times and three of those were probably to sit in a steam room. Instead the chirpy Filipino seemed genuinely pleased to have me back amongst their flock. I signed what I had to sign, paid what I had to pay, and ventured into the dressing rooms. I'm not a gym aficionado but I really wonder if every gym has the same number of mirrors as this particular one. However ashamed you are of your slightly flabby (SHUT UP) ageing body, with every turn there it is staring right back at you. I'm assuming the mirrors are there for the masses of well groomed and tight bodied Lebanese blokes instead of us pie eaters that hail from Blighty.

I quickly got dressed and, eyes down, I marched into the gym. Now, the trick is trying to look like you know exactly what you're doing - even though it's clearly evident from your body that you're not exactly a regular. A stretch here, a neck roll there and I was on the running machine. With Ipod blasting with Hip Hop music and towel stylishly placed around the neck I astonished myself with a 20 minute run. My pleasure was tarnished by the fact that the girl running on the machine in front of me, who was there when I started and was there when I stopped, didn't have a drop of sweat on her body hugging Lycra, whereas my blue banana tee shirt could quite easily have come straight out of a swimming pool (a stinky, sweat filled pool at that).

I convinced myself that she'd had a revolutionary sweat gland removal operation, rolled my neck, stretched my legs and took my sweaty, flabby and tired body back into the dressing room, only to have it shame me with every turn........oh dear god, WHY ALL THE MIRRORS?!!!

I Have A Dream.....

I'm writing this in the bedroom of a very flash hotel in Dublin. I'm lucky enough to be on a Fam trip of North and South Ireland and last night we went an exploration of Temple Bar and its various activities. Suffice to say today I hurt. That pain however is not the reason for writing these few words. Since "that" call from John last week I haven't really thought too much about the boxing. In my mind the experience doesn't become real until I start training and that's a few weeks off yet. However obviously subconsciously it's affecting me. In my 4 hours of sleep last night I dreamt about the fight and more importantly about my German opponent. Predictably he was blond and tall but the guy in my dreams also had a scar and a tattoo on his neck. Now, I'm pretty sure an advertising executive in Dubai won't have a tattoo on his neck but this shows how your mind can play tricks on you. I can't say I'm that nervous yet but I do think I'd better start focusing on getting ready. With that in mind I've decided that I'll use the train journey to Belfast to choose the music mix that I'll come into the ring with.....that'll show the German who's boss!

WHAT? - It's a start isn't it?!!!!!!

But I'm on my way to Burger King.........

So today it happened. I was just pulling into Burger King near media city and my phone rang. The guilt of my impending fast food almost made me ignore the call and the fact that I didn't recognise the number allowed me a level of justification in just hitting the busy button. Something however made me answer.

"It's me - John" said the voice. It didn't sound like any John I know and there was an accent that I wasn't sure of. "Oh John, how are you?" I lied.

"I'm great", he said "and I've got some fantastic news....it's D Day and you've been chosen to fight at Fight Night 3". I giggled. In retrospect that possibly wasn't the most manly of responses but it came from a sudden inner realisation that someone was going to hit me in front of 1000 people. He continued "I can't tell you who you'll be fighting but all I can say is he's a year older than you, an inch taller than you and 5kg heavier than you, oh and he's German. Plus he's an advertising executive and all of the training and fight will be filmed for a German TV program and so you'll be as famous as David Hasselhoff in Germany."

Lots of things passed through my mind, not least that its not fair that he's bigger than me (I'd hoped for a fat midget), that my mum would kill me if she found out what I was doing and that I bet he didn't use the D Day line with him.

I didn't go into Burger King.