MAXstyrka

A drifter sort of person

2026-07-30T09:43:18Z

I decided in my teens not to pursue a career instead opting to be a sort of odd job man which I am to this day. On leaving school I could have done further education but didn’t like the idea of it. Instead I signed up for an apprenticeship but I tended my resignation before the probation period ended. At the time the wise employer called me into his office and warned “If you’re not careful, you’re going to become one of those drifter sort of people who never amount to anything.” He was spot on and in less than a year I heard it all again almost word for word from another well-meaning grown up concerned that I was leaving opportunity behind. I didn’t become the responsible steady person I could have been. Years later, my friend Tomo (who I did listen to occasionally) told me, “There’s no pockets in a shroud Dan.” He was right.

I’ve done a lot of exciting and unlikely things and it’s rare to I find people I’m in awe of. Dave Faulkner is one such person. He left armwrestling as I was coming in and with common friends we’ve followed what each other are doing without ever meeting. He’s done fighting sports at a high level – Judo, MMA, Submission grappling, was in the UFC programme Ultimate Fighter 9, BJJ, Greco Roman. He took it into TV and films as a baddie and lately as a fight coordinator. These are fun pursuits certainly, but most impressive to me is that Dave is also a professional wrestler. People laugh sometimes when I say I’m a fan of pro wrestling – citing pre-determined outcomes. Is it surprise that books and films have those too? Watch the first few minutes of Predator and tell me you don’t know that Schwarzennegger is going to be the only survivor of that team. Wrestling, like Pantomime has larger than life characters, unlikely stories and lots of laughs. I liked it when I was three. I came to appreciate how much conditioning the wrestlers have to build. When I became strong enough lift a person on the move I realised how lacking I was in comparison.

Recently Universal Judo Academies in Wallasey near Liverpool advertised Dave Faulkner to be running a seminar in their gym. I decided to go. It was judo based but with additions from his vast experience. I partnered up with a very solid man called Jamie & under Dave’s instruction we learned some new techniques. At the end we had a chance to do a short pro wrestling skit in front of the gym. I didn’t expect that, but as any of my training partners will tell you if they ask for volunteers to demonstrate something, I’m out the front and you are coming with me. For those few minutes Jamie was Ric Flair & I was Steve Regal. We made Dave laugh – and that was the measure of success for me today.

I gave Dave a lift home, a road trip too short by far. We told stories, sang along to Hillbilly Jim’s theme tune “Don’t go messin’ with a country boy” and I kind of felt (and not for the first time) that I had made it somehow, though in what I can’t quite say. Does it get better than this? This is what you get for being an irresponsible drifter sort of person. I reckon it was the right direction.

See you down the road.

Four men in a boat.

2026-07-23T21:01:43Z

On June 9th 2014 a lot of media carried the meeting in which Swedish Prime minister Fredrik Reinfeldt rowed German Chancellor Angela Merkel and the Prime Ministers of Britain and Netherlands – David Cameron and Mark Rutte – across Lake Harpsundssjon.

“I have meetings all the time with people in rowboats, what’s strange about that?” I thought. I’ve rowed since childhood, for leisure, exercise, lifeguard duties, exploring, long distance swimmers escort. I’m currently servicing a floating pontoon using my small rowboat as a platform to work from. Like the fireside a rowboat is a good place to tell uninterrupted stories.

The lifeguard club owns a rowboat called the Rana which like me is over 50 years old. At the coast it was used in surf rescue training and competitions, served as command platform for long distance swimming events, triathlons and boat regattas. It was hauled over ice for winter training exercises, survived a fire that burned a meter wide hole through the hull and had to be rebuilt. According to one of my predecessors Bill Guest, he used it as an office for meeting people new to the club, assessing competency and most of all making plans. He was pleased to find as the current captain of the club I do much the same.

Four of us gathered over a hearty breakfast before we set to oars. Three of us ate, one declined. In twenty five years we have seen Jeremy eat once, and there is suspicion that he may have been faking. Rumour has it that he’s an android, though he can’t even be tempted with engine oil. Lex says he may be gas or solar powered.

Colin and Jeremy were around with Bill back in the 80’s – Craig and I were not, so being youngsters, we manned the oars and piloted the boat around the lake. Jeremy was the one who repaired the Rana after the fire. I recalled when Colin and I turned it upside down whilst in it to simulate rescue of someone trapped underneath.

The lake was like glass and the sun shone down on us. I mentioned to Colin about paddle board polo that some people at this lake play and it bought our thoughts to our late friend Julie Read. At her funeral I declared her to be the world’s best (and dirtiest) winter water polo player. We played only when the water was too cold for triathletes who we kept out of the best stuff. It was Julie and I versus Craig and Anji with whoever else turned up. Colin was goalie for both teams – his job was to catch the ball in an anchored boat and then throw it further out into the lake. Jeremy kept score. What went on under the water when Julie Read was tackling was only fully revealed after she died – both sexes reported her ability to get the ball with equal horror. No surprise that we mostly won.

Time marches on. Still involved in some rescue activity for the resident sailing club and out in the weather throughout the year, we pull on the oars and still crew rescue boats. Plenty of time to reminisce of adventures past and look forward to more. A message was received from Trevor – absent again due to televised football.

Some things never change.

See you down the road.

By the fireside

2026-07-17T07:06:51Z

Folklore and pop culture are interchangeable in the rear-view mirror of history. It can be difficult to discern which if any were reality. Methods of storytelling have changed. For millennia the fireside tale ruled supreme. In the late 1970’s my Dad lamented the removal of the coal burner from our fireplace despite the savings that would be made by having the gas fire and radiators installed. “It’s the end of an era,” he declared. I thought nothing of it at the time. I was too young to be nostalgic and I got to make the old coal bunker into a den. It was a cultural shift. Our focus went from the fireplace to the very small TV in another part of the room, as it did for millions of others.

Long before technology allowed mass broadcasting, the written word gave the reader the opportunity to pause the action over a timescale of their own choosing. Books, pamphlets, newsletters, newspapers and magazines bought the outside world into our homes. Comic books were especially beloved in my house. I vaguely remember old people complaining about youngsters reading too much. Radio broadcasts (now podcasts) free up the hands and eyes changing the audience back to listeners. Cinema and television demand fuller attention. Moving pictures immerse the viewer. Stage productions in front of live audiences require greater suspension of belief. Graphic novels are not hampered by the special effects budget or the physical limitations by the actors and stunt performers. Regardless, there is always someone curating the story – editors, directors, writers, and a dozen other job descriptions decide what entertainment gets in front of us. We have more choice than ever before – but it is a different sort of choice. Wandering into a book shop or video store took time. An internet search engine accesses millions of options in an instant. Does anyone scroll past page one of the results? Are they better options? Less random, more curated?

New technologies using computer generated images weave different sorts of reality. Imagination is the currency required both from creator and audience. Between is advertising. Many TV cartoons of my childhood turned out to be profitable vehicles for toy manufacturers. The stories hooked us, adverts showed the playthings and shops dutifully stocked them. Complex algorithms now feed our interests. There is no escaping the targeting. If it’s free, your attention is the product.

Artificial intelligence is said to be growing exponentially in capability. It can produce a story based upon available data and the direction of the enquirer. Can it discern historical fact from folklore? Is it required to? It is designed to gain and feed attention – the currency of advertisers. Mainstream TV villains and professional wrestling heels often find Joe Public hostile in real life situations. If discerning humans can’t tell the difference between an actor and a character what chance the robots?

We get to choose what we believe in, how we behave and the stories we tell about it all. Circumstances limit our opportunities and life behind the screens is becoming more usual. It’s never too late to choose action over passivity. Move about a bit more in the locality and meet real people to find common interest.

Your story isn’t finished, there is more to do. When technology fails or becomes unfashionable there is a place by the fireside where you can tell your tale. Just for that night. Next day, it will be time to do something else.

See you down the road.

I was the Loch Ness Monster for a day.

2026-07-09T23:00:42Z

“Myths and Legends of the British Isles” has been a favourite book since childhood and inspired many expeditions. It was the first I ever heard of the Loch Ness Monster. The five hour roadtrip returning home from the latest armwrestling event with Atom Bomb provided random chat including the possible existence of the Loch Ness Monster. He had some interest and I told him of my 9 mile swim without a boat up the lake in 2003. My theory at the time was that large marine animals are generally curious. A swimmer without a wetsuit traversing the area where the most sightings occur at the right time of day and month would give the best odds for a sighting. Armed with a waterproof camera I entered the lake at 0520 on a misty August morning. It was an adventure. I’ll skip to the bit that reveals I didn’t see anything in my 6 hours of swimming. I heard strange noises of clicking and whining which made me think of whales or dolphins. The best suggestion I have heard to explain this is gases being released by tectonic movements of the Great Glen faultline itself which the loch is part of. I can’t confirm that obviously.

I swam mostly on the edge of the three metre shallows with the dark void to my immediate left. I was about 50 meters from the shore for the most part until encountering a fish farm where I had to swim out a few hundred meters into the middle. Suddenly the adventure didn’t seem such a good idea. Luckily I saw a tourist boat in the distance and smiled – they would’ve be told of the extreme cold and dangers of falling in the loch. The day before a local warned me that 5 people had died from immersion in the past year and three of the bodies had not been found. Survival in the icy waters was limited to a few minutes at best he said. I imagined someone on the boat with binoculars scoriung the water for surface movements. For that moment at least I figured I was the Loch Ness Monster.

My friend Fred Barnfield found the whole adventure very amusing. He intimated to me that during national service in the early 1950’s he was stationed in the area. A regular diversion he and his friends had was to place a straw bale under a tarpaulin attached to a rope and wait for a tourist bus to approach. By the time passengers disembarked to the waters edge from the next available place to stop, the bale and tarpaulin had been hidden. It was customary for one of the soldiers to chance upon the group and ask what the excitement was about. Tales of beasts with flippers, multiple humps and long necks were told. Fred noted imagination overtook the reality. Only a few people on the bus could have possibly seen the shape. The rest were hopeful believers.

The “Encyclopedia of Loch Ness Monster sightings” shows 1950 and 1951 were busy years. I was reminded of this the other day when a random algorithm took me to a website hosted by monster enthusiasts. A drawing of three straw bales (not one) under tarpaulins attached to ropes was featured and a corresponding monster photograph from 1951 showing three humps in Loch Ness accompanied the hoax description.

Fred would have shrugged and smiled. Evidence of one hoax doesn’t disprove the possibility of something unusual living in the lake but it does remind us to be discerning.

See you down the road.

Fame is the last of the passions

2026-07-02T20:08:09Z

“You have to be sick to listen to me” was a strapline I used on my hospital radio talk show. The Sunday night 8 til 10 slot had weekly inspirational guests. They were strongmen, long distance swimmers, musicians, adventurers. Sometimes celebrities were lured from the local bookshop signings that had less interest than they had hoped. Afterall, the famous really want only one thing – to collect people that endlessly repeat their name.

One guest brought a drunk friend with him in the hope to cause trouble – an artist with a history of deliberately saying the wrong thing on live radio broadcasts. It didn’t work with me. Fred Barnfield and I immediately became the best of friends. It was unusual on the face of it. Fred was in his seventies, drunk alcohol heavily every Sunday. I was mid thirties, never drank. He’d taken the decision to become an artist early in his life, I pursued physical culture. Little common ground on the face of it. We’d both had tedious day jobs and enjoyed freedom to think our own thoughts. Over the five years of the show he became my most regular guest.

We’d seen each other in the local newspapers and it was from this that he gave me his first bit of wisdom. “Fame is the last of the passions,” he whispered. He reasoned that most people want to be celebrities. To overcome that urge and dissolve into nothingness was the next inevitable step to growth. I instantly understood it. Applying it – several times I thought I had. Not so sure now. Deep zen thoughts occurred a lot in Fred’s discourses and we had many over the next decade.

Fred’s vast body of art can be difficult to appreciate. Like a strongman performing assistance exercises to improve the competition lifts, he painted more than those intended for show. Many were meditative in their execution, nothing special. Others were fantastic. He often waxed lyrical about ones that to me seemed most mundane. Who am I to say which is which? Even now I get surprised what buyers choose for their walls. I became curator of his collection before he died. With the reality that his lifelong passion was destined for the skip if left to his relatives – he asked me to get his work on as many walls as I could. He believed – like his hero Modigliani – that his art would me more appreciated posthumously. I am starting to see that.

In 2011 I rented the top floor of a derelict building as an office with storage space. He was sceptical about what I could gain from it. A few months later, repainted in his customary blob style I invited him up to see the empty space for him to use. He had often dreamed of an ideal exhibition – one that he could have complete control of. It was the start of the JULY9 exhibition. Fred died in 2013. We decided to make the exhibition online in his eventual absence which I have continued via the SEISMICSECRET youtube channel.

Fred would have loved being mentioned on MAXSTYRKA. How many reading this site train in the hope to get famous in their own field? Maybe we’re all still collecting names: Fred understood our reasoning. He eventually let it go, dissolved into being just who he was. We can too. Happy Birthday Fred.

I have to feed my sisters cat…

2026-06-25T12:03:52Z

I ran an outdoor swimming club for thirteen years before such things got popular. It was Sunday, Monday and Wednesday in the lake, two other days at an indoor pool and it was a hub of ambitions. We had a few English Channel Swimmers, lake challengers, some of us were extreme cold enthusiasts. The committee of three of us that ran it were also involved in a lifeguard club and a lifesaving class. There were triathletes too. We used to joke that triathletes, like flies, appear when the sun shines.

On 22nd October 2007 two coaches and I were discussing some slackers who were not making the grade. “It’s not like we pull them in off the street,” said Richard. “They come to us and tell us what they want to do, we say we’ll help and then they don’t do anything.” He was perplexed. Jane had similar tales to tell of her group, always giving reasons why they were not going to swim after all. That week one swimmer left a session early “to feed his mother’s cat.” Coincidentally another told me he could not attend as he “Had to feed his sisters cat.” There were a lot of well-fed cats benefiting from these layabouts Richard mused. I proposed between us we start a book to record the excuses we encountered for a full year and see which ones proved most entertaining.

The existence of the excuse book soon gained widespread notoriety. We did not judge the quality of the excuses, nor argue with the whiners about their submissions. We just recorded them, anonymously to protect the identities of the guilty. Twelve months later we pooled our submissions and I printed them off into a thirty two page book called “I have to feed my sister’s cat” and other reasons not to swim. It was circulated for a few weeks among the survivors.

Four years later (2011) we decided to run it again for another year. Thereafter it became something mentioned but rarely added to. We’d had our fun. In 2014 the swimming club had served it’s time and dissolved. Covid ended the Lifesaving class. A few remnants of the lifeguard club continue. The book itself is now in my study, dormant and only occasionally opened. The few survivors of the three clubs generally do not respond to training dates unless definitely attending. They learned the hard way maybe that committing and not turning up has consequences.

So it was then that Angell and I were having breakfast at the lake on Saturday before launching the rowboat. A message came through from Trevor, a guy who has a physique like Batman in the movies. Trevor told us that he was going to join us but now wasn’t as he had got up late after watching football into the early hours.

“Football?!!” I spluttered as I read the text to Angell. He had no sympathy as he’d watched it too and still got up. Me – well, I phoned Trev and told him of course that it was the most insulting excuse we’d ever had in the history of the excuse book and that it would be reopened just for him. “Stood up for football!” I ranted. After all I reasoned, “chasing after a ball is what dogs do for entertainment.” Trevor therefore is the first submission to be publicly outed – the first in it’s 19 year history.

Some of the entries of the infamous excuse book will be revealed in due course.

See you down the road.

I never became a milkman.

2026-06-18T19:34:13Z

My dad had an arc welder in his workshop when I was a kid and it was a thing of wonder. It made a buzzing sound like the black and white Flash Gordon spaceships on Saturday morning television and of course the warning not to look anywhere near it when he was using it was stark. My dad had some good educational advice for staying safe and healthy. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to drown?” he asked me when I was four years old. I had not considered it. “Well, first you cough, and your throat will start to burn. Your eyes will bulge and you’ll feel like your head and chest are exploding. Then you’ll die. Do you want to drown?” I intimated it was not an ambition I had. “Stay away from the pond then,” he warned. He’d been advised by my mum to put a fence around our fish pond that was about a meter and a half deep. He thought a quiet chat would be sufficient, which it was.

Similarly, whilst driving along the motorway one day he asked me “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be run over by a juggernaut?” Again, my imagination fell short as I was into wrestling and science fiction comics. “Well, first your ribs will break…” he went on, finishing with the warning “Don’t ever open the car door whilst we are driving.” They put child locks on doors now as most parents haven’t got the same art of the cautionary tale as my dad had. Incidentally he got run over when I was eleven, ironic now I think of it.

Anyway, back to welding. I bought a machine off a friend as I was getting into strongman and having done a basic college course a few years before I had great ambitions to make my own kit, which I eventually did. I had the sense to sign up for another cheap course first – why waste electricity and electrodes I reasoned? I found it hard. I was diligent but clumsy, producing a number of poor test pieces that failed the grade for the most basic qualification level. I asked my humorous instructor what I might do. “When faced with people of your sort of skill,” he reflected “I usually suggest a career as a milkman.”

I persevered. I made handles for a car lifting rack and welded empty gas cylinders into Farmers walk apparatus. I’ve mended gates, benches, repaired random things and manufactured all sorts of things for my gym – lately a trap bar deadlift frame with 4 sets of handles for close and snatch grip at different heights. On Saturday I made a start on a football pressing bar. The sun was shining, everything was set up outside the workshop and I listened to some Westside Barbell podcasts. I thought of my Dad and smiled. Then remembering the welding instructors words said to myself “Well, I never became a milkman.”

See you down the road.

Hometown heroes.

2026-06-11T20:59:08Z

I inherited a pile of archive materials which included an innocuous local newsletter from the early 1970’s. In one small a column a contributor lamented the beginning of mass car ownership noting that commuters taking short cuts across the estate were reducing safety for children playing in the streets. Where would it end? Perhaps there would be a time when neighbours would not know each other and their interests would be connected only by use of personal transportation. We’re there now in many respects. I have friends all over the world – this week alone I have typed and received messages or spoken to people in America, Poland, Ireland, Scotland, Romania and of course with this column Sweden. Not so many on this street – I have arm wrestled a few of my neighbours on the trash can lid and had them over to play in my garden gym. None ever came twice. My community of friends are far flung, made available by personal transportation & modern technology. Road warrior culture is the way of things at least for me.

At the weekend I was co commentator with the Welsh Wolverine at Armgods England. Twelver matches with the co main event Mighty Noah vs The Vanilla Gorilla. Armgods put on live armwrestling shows in mostly unlikely locations aiming for a visceral and intense crowd experience. It’s livestreamed to subscribers. There are always difficulties and it is not surprising. Broadcasting corporations invest millions employing teams of trained sound, lighting, effects engineers and camera operators. They still manage to lose audio and visual signals for mainstream sporting events at the most inopportune moments. What hope a gang of armwrestling enthusiasts?

Well, there’s success to report, though not in the way most would measure. In varied roles of referee, commentator, mc, competitor or wrangler I’ve witnessed special things happen. Small communities come alive for weeks before when one of the locals is headlining a match card. “Is this armwrestling you do really a sport?” Who are you up against? And so the local challenger tells their story, shows the highlight reel of their opponent and grows their resolve to gain the victory. Tickets get sold. The travelling armwrestling circus comes to town complete with it’s larger than life characters sporting tattoos, strange haircuts and questionable dress sense.

Noah is much loved in his locality – that was obvious as he walked to the stage with his stats filling the giant LCD screen. Friends and family crowded the garden of the public house venue, some soaked by the rain as the canvas sheltered area was full. A few groups of children held up large signs that read “Come on Mighty Noah” and the cheering as he battled his much larger opponent was loud. They became intoxicated by the spectacle and I could feel it too. There was tension, uncertainty, setbacks. Will he prevail? Afterwards speeches were made, hands were shook and I felt drunk on the atmosphere. That’s never experienced through a screen. The best production expertise is at best third hand.

Community here has not been lost. It has grown and expanded with the technology. It only shrinks if everyone stays indoors behind their screens. Noah’s locality is going to talk about this for years to come. It will add to his mystique. Mitch’s size will increase over time, the troll under the bridge that had to be challenged. Noah will be asked at the petrol station who is next. People will point and smile in the grocery store. The collective memory of the battle will take on its own identity and the legend of the hometown hero established. It’s a magical thing to be part of.

See you down the road.

A Taste of Honey

2026-06-04T20:45:02Z

Driving through Anglesey many times on the way to the Ireland ferry I’d often thought to visit the island properly. I did last week. The rocky north coast proved to be the place for adventure. Max and I had ambitions to build David Horne style stone thrones which we did in locations we named Monarchs and Adder cove respectively. Building thrones is good training with a seat overlooking the sea as just reward. Sometimes a dip in the water to cool off follows. The dip in the clear sea on Tuesday felt uncomfortable. I’m 10-15 kilos lighter than when I used to swim outside for the 17 summers and winters. I’ve succumbed to the comforts of warm water, I chided myself. That didn’t last long – later I was relaxing in the hot tub.

Saturday, that satnav tricked me into driving over the M4 Suspension bridge which used to be a toll. I’d planned a different route but the robot sometimes changes its mind and leads you down different roads. Nostalgia hit– I was here last 5th November 2005 with Sealskin and we swam from one bank of the River Severn to the other. It was his ambition, not mine and I helped him get fit for it. Then he asked if I would do it with him. Swim distance just over a kilometer in a straight line but the mighty Severn has no slack water. We set out half hour before the change and ended up swimming nearer 5km. A few desperate souls have thrown themselves off the bridge deck. The view from the water with that thought made the temperature all the more chilling from underneath. The rescue team that accompanied us told me the last successful swimmers were US NAVY SEALS ten summers previously and like Sealskin they wore wetsuits. I was in trunks. I smiled to myself, then remembered how uncomfortable the short dip four days ago was. It’s hard to admit I’m less conditioned than I used to be. Less tough? Maybe, maybe not.

I was on the way to Cardiff to fight in the No Gi Judo Pilot event run by Alan Jones. He’s amazing, much respect for him and the reason for going really. The internal narrative asked me what was I expecting? “Well, they’ll all be tough. I want to have fun and improve.” There are always setbacks. Fall forwards and all that. I did plenty of falling as it turned out, helped over by the winner and runner up of the heavyweights. There were no easy fights. I did enough to get the bronze in our pool of 5. There was another scrapper there even older than me, so they put us together for an extra fight for the over 50’s. We’ve fought before – I won this time.

Driving away from the arena I felt dreamy. Paul Desmond playing Taste of Honey came up first on my playlist and coupled with the bruises I felt alive. The Anglesey scenery, stone thrones. Maybe the near concussion from the winners’ double leg takedown on me was more likely. Later, passing over the Severn I smiled again. A lot of my best efforts are in the rear-view mirror. It’s not necessary to repeat old feats when there are new ambitions. As Johnny Cash said, I know “The road ahead is hard and steep” but the Taste of Honey is something to be savoured once in a while.

See you down the road.

If you get knocked down you better get back up

2026-05-29T15:06:15Z

“Have you ever done a triathlon Dan?” In life’s top trumps I have a few cards to play and in answering that enquiry, yes I once did the London to Paris relay. Four of us ran from London to Dover in 1 hour rotations, took turns swimming to France followed by a cycle ride to Paris. One team member had to return after the swim leaving us remaining three to pedal from Calais to Paris. I did more of the swimming, less of the cycling. On my 64km ride I sang a lot. It was sunny, I was feeling superhuman and pedalled my old steel frame bicycle in top gear up the hills to prove a point that I could. The Champ was not impressed with my machine. “Did you find that in a museum or a skip?” he asked earnestly on seeing my DRGGG bike: rusting blue frame, orange handlebars, purple forks, various peeling stickers and tied on reflectors. He rode one of his ultra lightweight dream machines decked out in lycra and cycling shoes. I, of course, wore steel toe cap work boots to both run and cycle in. He was not impressed by that either.

The song I enjoyed singing most was That’s Life, by Frank Sinatra. It happened that as I passed the Champ and the other chap (name redacted) in a layby at the top of a hill I happened to be singing “Each time I find myself lying flat on my face, I pick myself up and get back in the race.” It seemed appropriate, though the guy that was with the Champ and I didn’t find it funny at all. It might be from the panic attack he’d had in the sea the day before which ended up with us swimming one of his turns between us.

We had joined in the event to help him out as he’d planned to do it solo, paid his money and then found that he couldn’t really swim. I don’t think he got our humour, maybe it was the masks we wore that I’d made with his face on, or the lurid stories that we told on the bus that didn’t suit his kind of lifestyle. Getting him to pose as Quasimodo before our trip to Notre Dame perhaps was the final straw. I wasn’t that bothered about the cathedral and as the Champ mentioned a few times after “they burnt the place down after Dan Earthquake visited.” Afterwards, the other chap never spoke to us again. He may still be recovering from the experience.

“I was the keyboard man in a rock and ska band,” (as Donald Fagen told us in the Steely Dan song Cousin Dupree) but I also sang – and still do on road trips with or without passengers. They can always get out and hitchhike. I was on road again to the South West last week heading to a judo course for helping elderly and injured people minimise the effects of falling over. I found myself singing my usual anthem by Roger Alan Wade. It sums up a lot of my philosophy and life: “If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough. If you get knocked down you better get back up.”

See you down the road.

Who is driving the bus?

2026-05-14T22:34:14Z

My mind is like a tour bus on a day trip to the seaside with noisy passengers. There are expectations, a route and a destination. Circumstances might dictate a detour and delays. Questions arise. Who decides which way to go? The passengers have opinions, the driver decides which gear to use and to steer left or right at each turn. Others disagree, making complaints without alternate solutions. Unreasonable demands to stop the bus immediately for comfort breaks will add time to the trip. “Drive faster…the trip is ruined…might as well go home…” are whispers and shouts, equally distracting.

There is always traffic ahead. Should the driver listen? Discuss the options, or follow the itinerary? Put the head phones on? The voices continue. “Who hired this driver anyway? He’s an idiot.”

I dream a lot, make plans and set off down the road with the best of intentions. Before the first turn the list of things that should have been done before leaving gets mentioned. Was this vital thing packed? What if xyz happens? The driver reminds the passengers that the checklist was done already and starts the music. Paraglider by Hans Gunther Kolz on loop might just quieten the rowdies, but someone at the front is whispering about next weeks schedule and a voice at the back is suddenly arguing over something that happened last year. An idiot reminds everyone about something not relevant that happened in the 1980’s. The driver steers on, taking in the surroundings, reading the road and enjoying the sunshine. We have to get there, focus on that difficult bridge to the guitar solo as the car with blacked out windows overtakes on the inside. Reality cuts through the noise, albeit briefly, muffling the narrative.

The question of who is driving the bus is a persistent one. A near endless inner narrative overlayed with multiple music tracks expends a lot of energy. Once started the “Whys” become the soundtrack. Laughter from the driver, “Quiet at the back.” Allowing the passengers to make too much noise outside of deliberate planning days is the cause of all the noise.

Exploring this train of thought has reminded me of the formal process that Edward de Bono’s book Six thinking hats identified. I used it for a while when I was a teenager and worth re-visting it now. It’s a good way to reduce the passengers to a committee allowed to present just facts and figures, positive ideas, negative comments, emotional concerns and lateral thinking. The driver pulls it all together to identify the destinations and route.

I have a blueprint of what I want my life to be. The noise, surprises and prevailing circumstances encountered along the way have changed the route but not the destination. It’s worth stopping the bus occasionally to eject some of the passengers that have travelled past their stop. Others might find themselves on the luggage rack with their mouths taped shut.

See you down the road.

What’s on sale today?

2026-05-14T22:32:21Z

Are you influenced by advertising? If you’re not actively resisting, you are. My late friend Fred Barnfield was an artist who spent a lot of time considering such things. His library was full of self help/get rich quick/win friends and influence people books, highbrow tomes on economics, autobiographies of people like PT BARNUM, and titles on the structure of the mind and psychology. He told me once that advertisers aim to get their message to you seven times. After that, they are in your consciousness and if you decide to buy an item it’s more likely you’ll get it from them than a competitor.

Fred’s conclusion was to protect yourself by repeating the phrase “I will not be influenced by advertising” as many times as could be remembered especially during television commercial breaks or whilst walking underneath billboards. I remember to do that occasionally only. I wonder what he would have made of targeted algorithms that feed you repeats of what you have said unguarded next to your mobile phone or searched for on the internet. Comics I read when I was a child are now being hawked to me on social media. Maybe it’s my age and some inclining towards nostalgia. More likely some robot overheard me mention Judge Dredd during an animated conversation on an armwrestling road trip.

Sales and advertising are dark arts. They know about us already and can find out more easily. That smiling sales rep doesn’t bleach their teeth and comb their hair for vanity alone. They are creating an impression and the smoothness of their voice and practiced patter are engineered to put you at ease. “I have what you want, and the price that I’m offering is fantastic – but it will be more tomorrow.” More subtle is the battle to gain your attention by the AI robots. Your attention is the most valuable commodity – advertisers want to get their product in front of your eyes whilst you are engaged in your favourite entertainment. Maybe you won’t buy today or tomorrow but if they can get into your consciousness now, half the sale is done.

Telesales guys and scammers somehow get my number. I don’t buy from them. My polite requests to be taken off the lists don’t seem to work, but adopting the telephone manner of Stone Cold Steve Austin seems to destabilize them. Withheld or unknown number? My answer is a sharp “What?” followed by “Who gave you this damn number?”. Conversations after that don’t last long.

There are a few guidelines to avoid impulse buying. Did I want the thing or service when I woke up this morning? Naturally I believe myself to be rational and logical, so contend that no deal is that good to be outside what I’ve already considered. If I decided already that I want something in some not so distant future and the price becomes right – well that might be different. Only might, because I’m also conscious that this is the chink in the armour. Those pesky robots are squirreling away to understand our motivations and plant their brand into our unconscious minds. An extra layer of rationale might need to be employed. Choices need to made when there are no means of ordering. The resting place in the forest or crowded noisy train might be the places for such considerations. The next day’s opportune moment must be paused. Was this my decision or an influence? The broader concept of how decisions form in the mind will be explored further next week.

See you down the road.

Sitting about

2026-05-07T21:15:08Z

A rare weekend of no action engulfed me with the start of it being breakfast at the sailing club with Angel who, like me is a veteran of the cold water rescue team. It was a perfect day to launch the rowboat – not much wind, strong sunshine – but Angel had to work later and I was scheduled to travel south soon after. We talked for once without applying ourselves to oars or being interrupted by dragging capsized sailors into the safety boat. We made plans for some maintenance on our boats, but otherwise were idle.

Once a year, the family meets. Some decades ago, it was noticed that funerals and weddings were the only occasions that catching up happened and so an annual get together on the first weekend of May was started. Curating a year’s activity into some sort of coherent narrative without dominating the conversation is the challenge. “What have you been up to Dan, still armwrestling?” – yes – “Still working on the channel swimming boats?” – no. I mention Judo, tell tales of the Claymore throwing around circus dumbells. It doesn’t hold much interest to those who play tennis and golf and yoga. My usual jibe that chasing after a ball is entertainment for dogs has been said previously and if I’m honest they didn’t find it funny then. Tales of the woods are a bit more well received. I deferred from the after dinner walk for a heartening talk with Aunt Sally who is 80 and full of enthusiasm and plans.

We eventually all went our separate ways back to lodgings or on the road to the different parts of the country that we live in. That night, full of dinner and not at all tired from any sort of exertion I woke in the early hours and found it hard to get back to sleep. Surprising, given my habit of falling asleep anywhere at any time of day no matter how much noise is going on around me. I have slept in a hotel under an open window, sunshine pouring in whilst outside a funfair operated. The car park was being attacked by workmen with pneumatic hammers. Such things do not bother me. Weddings are a danger. I try to find a seat behind a pillar or at the back. I have been rudely woken with a sharp elbow in the ribs during a particularly long service. “You fell asleep.” My shrug and lack of concern was met with the further whispered statement “and you were snoring.” It’s not just the clergy that send me off. I have paid for interesting courses and had to stand at the back of the room so as not to sleep through the instruction. Theatre trips and cinemas equally lead to slumber.

In the dark, a thousand thoughts and scenarios can play out with nothing achieved. The endless inner narrative has to be directed. I used the time awake to plan the next few weeks of training. 16 hours of one thing, 3 hours another. Plenty of movement, don’t forget the recovery. Don’t get tempted to compete here or there, stick to the plan. Stop eating so much. All decided before dawn. The journey home on the motorway did not require me to drive. I slept of course.

See you down the road.

Holding Court

2026-04-30T22:17:03Z

Chopper and I met in the seaside town of Westward Ho! (the only UK town with an exclamation mark in its name.) I’d been here in ‘80 and ‘81 so recounted fond memories as we walked the cliffs to a deserted rocky beach. A few years ago Strongman David Horne built an elaborate Conan the Barbarian style throne on a beach in Anglesey in Wales. It inspired me to build four of my own on visits to the coast. I also follow Martin Gallagher’s adventures in Ireland seeking out and lifting ancient stones that have appeared in myths and legends. With uphill treks through picturesque landscapes to find them, the age old trope that strongmen lack cardio vascular conditioning can soon be put to bed. As he says, “What else would you be at?”

Having gained the overall bronze medal at the Devastating Devon Armwrestling Tournament the day before, Chopper had some soreness in his arm. Not surprising given that it took sixteen pins to get it. In contrast I lost three matches, won two and took no damage. Chopper is explosive, I am not. I plod along with slow twitch force whilst he takes a few sharp breaths and explodes into motion.

I had an unrealistic expectation of what size stone I would be able to lift in the South West. The rocks are much denser than the chalk blocks of the South East – as I discovered on the first attempt to move a rounded lump lying in a shallow rock pool. It led to more rolling and sliding than initially planned.

It’s ephemeral art. I like to build below the tide line so the crashing waves will claim the work. One I built last year got covered with half a meter of sand on the next spring tide.

It’s worth appealing to the eager not to build thrones with named stones that the historic lifters use and revere – there are millions of others which have no significance to play with. The wild hunt might come for you else.

It took about an hour for Chopper and I to lift, carry, drag, slide and roll Sisyphus style the stones into something resembling a throne as the tide marched in towards us. With ten meters before being overran, I sat facing the sea whilst Chopper reminded the world that I’m the PAA President. In turn, I heralded him as King Chopper of Westward Ho! The potential courtiers who had been watching kept their distance and did not shower us with gifts and tribute as we might have expected. Nevermind, peasants and serfs the lot of them!

We departed before the tide lapped our feet and talked all things strength as we surveyed our kingdom from the cliffs. King Chopper agreed that the exercise value for muscles and tendons was considerable. He’s going to build more, so am I. Coming soon to a beach near you maybe.

See you down the road.

Every Exotic location is someone’s backyard.

2026-04-26T08:40:48Z

I never got to see the Camberwell Werewolf, despite travelling in that vicinity regularly for a few years, mostly after dark. It was a vague preposterous tale, a throwback of a bygone age that appeared in a national newspaper’s weird news section. I’m not saying I believe it, but I like the possibility. I’ve always read books on mythology and for a year or so mounted my own expeditions to swim in lakes where monsters were said to haunt. It was a worthwhile pursuit which led to some unexpected encounters. Stories for another day certainly. I eventually realised that every exotic location is someone’s backyard. Understanding that gave more appreciation to my own locality.

Are urban legends and folklore more or less prolific now with the internet? There is more opportunity, but less wonder. A book can sit on a shelf brooding moodily for many years. Typed accounts on electronic screens have less gravity, whilst the influencers video monologue is no substitute for romance told on a road trip or a fireside tale under the stars.

Whatever thoughts that concerned me whilst sawing up deadfall in the woods this week were interrupted and quickly forgotten by a large stag that crashed about and bellowed its territorial claim about thirty meters away. It had a voice like no other and it did the rounds for a while. I’d never seen such a magnificent beast in the flesh before, but familiarity from books, magazines and films meant that whilst novel, it was not fantastic or incredible. It was no less impressive. Had it been twice the size, blue with fire coming out of its nostrils – maybe that would have alarmed me. Or maybe not. I hunted the Loch Ness monster afterall, and like the woodsmen of the fairy tales, big bad wolves, witches and dragons do not stop the work progressing for long.

Just as the exotic to one person is familiar to another, normal behaviour varies considerably. I have for many decades enjoyed exercise wherever I happened to be – and I care little for how ridiculous it might appear, though I suspect my pursuit of physical culture has made others incredulous about seeing me in my natural habitat.

I have swam to the opposite side of a lake early on a winters morning to deliberately make barefoot tracks on virgin snow for the dog walkers to find. At the same location on a misty night I was mistaken for a ghost by an inebriated friend who watched me exit and walked nervously to me and put his hand on my shoulder to prove to himself that he was not hallucinating. I also swam underwater some distance to appear in front of a man practicing bagpipes by the lakeside and broke ice with my head from underneath on other occasions.

My recent habit these past few years, especially on winter nights is to perform slow mobility drills around the local graveyard in insulated coveralls. The bell ringers practice whilst I duck walk and bear crawl around the war memorial. Are those statues moving? Does the crow call out “Dan?” A disturbed wood pigeon might flutter unexpectedly, bats fly about looking for moths. An owl hoots and passes overhead as my hot breath permeates the cold night air. If the watchers are watching they are having a time of it. Most of the dog walkers and late night drinkers ignore me. Maybe they are all reading Max Styrka on their phone screens or more likely are pretending not to notice.

See you down the road.

It wasn’t a vulture.

2026-04-11T11:20:46Z

I read the Saga of Grettir the Strong around twenty-eight years ago. I was an aspiring strongman with a love of mythology. I’d been injured badly when I was 13, recovered and was still on the up with plenty of hope and ambition. It’s no spoiler to reveal that Grettir wasn’t the easiest to get on with. This, combined with his great physical ability made for challenging circumstances. Well, I can identify with that. Grettir’s great strength declined after fighting one monster too many. Despite still being a formidable specimen, he hankered after the strength he once had. I’d hoped – and still hope – for a different experience in my later years.

In similar mythology Fionn Mac Cumhaill’s son Oisin returned to Ireland from a visit to the Land of the Young. There are various versions, but in the one I like best he’d stopped on the island for a feast as respite from fog and stayed three nights. Back home three hundred years passed. In a series of adventures as an old man, he found everyone else to be weaklings, despite himself much diminished from his prime years. I’m getting older and things hurt when I wake. The inner narrative that castigates for not training harder also criticises not taking recovery seriously. Always some conflict within.

The ongoing work of dealing with storm damage in the woods continued this week. Up and down the ladder like a fiddler’s elbow, sawing, carrying, dragging, piling. I used to be fitter. I thought of Grettir as I took some moments to catch my breath. Is that me now, managing decline?

From the corner of my eye, I sensed movement. The play of light at a distance, the odd deer stalking about. Or a watcher? “Don’t look directly,” but I did and broke the spell. “I saw you,” I said out loud, laughing to myself at the space where nothing was.

A nearby dead tree had its highest branches four or five metres up ready to drop. It became next on my list to be lopped. Leaning on the trunk to remove a thorn from my boot there was movement. I smiled, braced my shoulder against the bark, set my legs into the earth and pushed. It moved a little. I drove forwards again; movement, then resistance before the rotten roots cracked and over it went. I hope the watchers were impressed.

Worrying about what can’t be done is unproductive. I’m maximising what I can do efficiently and make improvements where I find them. Vaguely thinking these thoughts as I piled the deadfall, a large herd of deer ran through the woods at a reasonable distance to avoid me. They disturbed a fox who I saw only fleetingly. The resident young male deer trotted through some minutes behind the pack passing much closer. I shouldn’t be surprised – we meet often enough. He paused to inspect my work. I noted that his antlers were coming on nicely before he sped away. I was a little jealous. I will run again, I mused.

The woods are looking brighter and cleaner. Bluebells are now a purple carpet and the work of organizing deadfall into habitats is paying off. Brambles stretch upwards to snag shins & knees. Presently ferns will uncurl and change the whole vista. Winter storm carnage is over and that big bird of prey circling above me today definitely wasn’t a vulture.

Artikel – Här är de bästa högtalarna för hemmagymmet

2026-04-11T19:42:43Z

Att träna hårt utan musik är som att äta äppelkaka utan vaniljsås – något fattas. Att lyssna på musik från en dålig högtalare är som att äta den där äpplekakan där vaniljsåsen är utbytt mot klorin.

Ett bra hemmagym behöver därför en bra högtalare. Så, vilken högtalare passar bäst för hemmagymmet? Här tipsar vi om olika högtalare för ditt hemmagym, oavsett om du har ett litet, ett mellanstort eller ett enormt hemmagym. Fler recensioner på högtalare kan ni läsa på Techsajten.se.

Det lilla hemmagymmet

De flesta som har ett hemmagym har ett litet sovrum eller källarskrubb där de nätt och jämt får plats med en bänk, en skivstångsställning och eventuellt ett par hantlar. I det lilla hemmagymmet är plats en bristvara och en stor högtalare hade bara varit i vägen. Men, det finns mindre högtalare som trots sin ringa storlek kan bjuda på både hög volym och en hyfsad basåtergivning.

En smidig, relativt liten och lättplacerad högtalare är JBL Charge 6. Den är liten nog att få plats på fönsterkarmen och låter betydligt mer än den ser ut att göra. JBL Charge 6 kostar 1 699 kr.

Läs recensionen här.

Om din budget är knaper kan du glädja dig åt att JBL Flip 7 kostar en femhundring mindre än Charge 6. För 1 199 kr får du en högtalare som förvisso inte låter riktigt lika kraftfull som Charge 6, men ändå både klart och relativt högt. En ännu smidigare högtalare som är väl värd sitt pris.

Läs recensionen här.

Det mellanstora hemmagymmet

Ett mellanstort hemmagym har ofta en rejäl powerrack, ett välfyllt viktställ, ett tåligt gymgolv, evetuellt ett litet hantelställ och kanske ett lyftarpodium. Här nöjer man sig inte med småhögtalare, utan här vill man kunna brassa på ordentligt när det vankas maxning.

En perfekt högtalare för det mellanstora hemmagymmet är Marshall Bromley 450. Den låter fantastiskt bra, den är mångsidig och den är snygg nog att kunna stå framme även om konungen skulle komma på besök. Du kan också koppla in mikrofoner och instrument på baksidan av högtalaren, om konungen skulle vilja svänga sina lurviga. Batteritiden ligger på 40 timmar, vilket är ruskigt bra. Den kostar dock 7 499 kr, men byggkvaliteten, ljudkvaliteten och batteritiden väger upp för priset. Dessutom får du med ett laddningsbart batteri.

Läs recensionen här.

En betydligt billigare högtalare för det mellanstora gymmet är JBL Boombox 4. Den har nog med volymresurser för att fylla en halv villavåning och tillräckligt djup bas för att det ska kännas i pecsen. För 4 490 kr är det svårt att få bättre ljud för pengarna. Den är också betydligt lättare att bära omkring på, så om du vill ta med din högtalare till stranden efter avslutat träningspass är Boombox 4 det bättre valet.

Läs recensionen här.

Det stora hemmagymmet

För den som inte nöjer sig med kommersiella gym, men fortfarande vill ha samma utbud, är det stora hemmagymmet lösningen. Här hittar man ofta maskiner för både för styrka och kondition, fullstora hantelställ, smithmaskiner, kryssdrag, ett flertal bänkar och utrustning av mer exklusiva märken. Varken utrymme eller ekonomi är några hinder här.

När det kommer till högtalare behöver man kraft – på riktigt. En högtalare som bjuder på det är JBL PartyBox 720. Basen går löjligt djupt, mellanregistret är brett och omfångsrikt och diskanten är kristallklar. Dessutom har den volymresurser nog för att fylla vilket hemmagym som helst, även om hemmagymmet skulle husera i en hangar. Högtalaren har också en inbyggd ”ljusshow” som kan ge gymmet like discokänsla, om man nu vill ha det. I annat fall går det självklart att stänga av det. Som grädde på moset har PartyBox 720 mängder av ingångar så att du kan koppla in mikrofoner, instrument och DJ-bord.

JBL PartyBox 720 kostade 10 000 kr när den släpptes i höstas, och redan då var den rimligt prissatt. Nu har JBL sänkt priset med 2 000 kr till 7 990 kr, vilket gör högtalaren löjligt prisvärd! Det ska sägas att även om PartyBox 720 går att spela trådlöst följer det inte med några batterier (de får man köpa separat), så det är sladd som gäller här. Här till höger ser ni hur mycket större PartyBox 720 är än Boombox 4.

Läs recensionen här.

Om du vill ha en högtalare som har en mer klassisk look men fortfarande bjuder på kraft, bra ljudkvalitet och möjlighet att koppla in mikrofoner och instrument kan Marshalls flaggskepp Bromley 750 vara något att spana in. Det här är storebrorsan till Bromley 450, vilket innebär ett betydligt kraftfullare ljud, samma fantastiska batteritid och samma funktioner som lillebrorsan. Även i Marshalls båda högtalare finns en ”ljusshow”, men den är betydligt mer sparsmakad än den som finns i PartyBox 720.

Bromley 750 kostar 10 990 kr och är därmed överlägset dyrast bland dessa högtalare, men då ingår det ett batteri som gör att du kan använda den utan att koppla in sladden i väggen.

Läs recensionen här.

De två tungviktarna: JBL PartyBox 720 bredvid Marshall Bromley 750. Om du vill veta vilken av dessa två som är bäst kan du läsa ett jämförande test här.

King of the Road

2026-04-11T11:18:27Z

What else to do when fuel prices spiral upwards daily than take your friends on a long road trip? Odin and Chopper drove 325km to meet me, and continued 455km as passengers. Atom Bomb had been on night shift and decided to meet us there and ride back. It being a holiday weekend, traffic was heavy. Plenty of time for stories, gossip and plans. I recounted recently hitting the back of my head with a wooden training mace whilst trying to copy the IRON SHEIK’s Persian club challenge. This, like many other mishaps kept us entertained.

Our destination: Hostile Strength, run by Martin Lennox, is strongman paradise. Historic heavy kit used for famous world records and everything for this generation to chase them lives here. It was our venue for an episode of the PAA Warzone Road Warrior League. In October, the points winner of all the events will take home the 2026 belt.

The Dragon prevailed over all opposition gaining 15 pins for each arm. He came to help referee but got enthused & decided to enter. Previous winner of this event Claymore also came to referee. Martin had a surprise for him– a 100kg circus dumbbell with a 60mm handle that had been recently obtained. No one had yet managed to lift it – could our giant referee? Yes, he could. There’s talk of a 120kg arriving soon – will he lift that? We shall see.

The action was intense. Hostile is my favourite trip of the year. Next morning over breakfast Atom Bomb was incredulous when I mentioned the plan before returning – a short tournament between the four of us (1 pull each arm) to determine the King of the Road. It’s become something of a tradition on such trips in one form or another. His reaction was less than favourable, Odin and Chopper found this hilarious. It took some cajoling to get him at least to drive the bus whilst we fought it out on a predetermined route on the deserted estate. He didn’t make emergency stops in like I have in the past, though the roundabouts did provide some extra challenge.

Chopper won (we named him King of the Road,) Odin won Silver, I came last. Suitably amused we made our way home. Atom Bomb demanded cider to get over the trauma – we found the only service station in Scotland not to have any despite a vague belief that “even churches sell cider in Scotland.” We got some later and he tried to sleep whilst we continued our usual banter and stories. “For someone with a good memory you forget you’ve told me that seventeen times” he noted at one point, trying to block it all out.

Between us all there were moments of quiet reflection – the landscape of Scotland is worth that. There was wild speculation about spaceships, thoughts of what lie in the deep oceans and a revelation: Chopper inadvertently admitted he is the “Phantom braker of the M4” – or at least one of them – there may be more. It’s an urban motorway legend of at least 20 years standing that a joker randomly drives along the motorway and without warning brakes sharply. The butterfly effect follows that several kilometres further on traffic comes to a standstill.

A pressing question is will Atom Bomb travel with us again? We have plans for a few weeks. He said he’ll likely take his own vehicle.

See you down the road.

I’m just the cook.

2026-04-02T16:18:34Z

Cooking was not something that I thought highly of when I was a child. Eating, that was another matter but the corelation between the two was not obvious to me until later. I spent many Saturday mornings at my Nan’s house marvelling at the food she produced. Better than any restaurant then or since. Conversely, my mum was not a fan, just as I wasn’t that keen on hers. Anecdotally I think there is some resonance between the generations either side of a parent. Anyway, I was largely disinterested in the process and at school when we had to do such things I was hostile to it. That all changed when I left home and found that microwave meals were too small and not all that good.

My nan, a former schoolteacher had realised my reluctance to engage early on so taught me by stealth. “Come and tell me what you’ve been doing while I’m in the kitchen,” she would say. I got asked to pass ingredients, stir pots and she would interject here and there why she was putting mustard in the cheese sauce or why onions and capsicums were best fried before browning the meat. Oblivious, I talked about my plans to become a strongman or join the military or whatever and it was years later that I realised what I’d learned and when.

It’s served me well. I can knock up decent meals and not just for myself: the most I have ever fed is 86. This was at a youth camp and over an open fire too. It’s that time of year again when I travel for a few days to an activity centre to cook for a similar group of young people, just about 35 this time though. It’s three meals a day plus snacks and the washing up can be overwhelming. Away from my usual activities, I do some calisthenics and isometrics after dark and early mornings and usually plan what’s next training wise. It’s a bit of a reset. Those I’m feeding are oblivious to this – to them, I’m just the cook.

It always makes me smile because on the charter boat that I used to work on we escorted English Channel Swimmers and I had a number of duties – steering the boat across the shipping lanes on the return trip at night was one of them, swimming or kayaking in with the finishing swimmers was another. There were a few occasions where I had to put the wet gear on and go underneath to cut rope or nets off the propellers. There were moments of imminent danger and I have stood on the deck with a tyre iron or other implement, ready to repel borders. More mundane but no less enjoyable I cooked a full English Breakfast each morning and often an evening meal too. It can be challenging when a tanker goes past at 15 knots and the boat climbs over the bow wave. A knee has held the grill pan in place and beans were being stirred whilst the other hand danced between two fry pans with eggs, bacon and tomatoes in. Banana pancakes at 1am was a speciality. It was a strange sort of job and I told the story of it again to my mate Chris who is the smiling killer who runs the café at a neighbouring judo club. We reflected that we could both use the line from Steven Seagall’s film UNDER SIEGE – “I’m just the cook.”

See you down the road.

Just keep turning up to things.

2026-03-27T07:27:56Z

Dragging the lump of tree through the woods was hard enough but brambles and briars pulling at my ankles gave some extra hinderance. My general strategy for manual labour is to move slowly with a big load, rather than make several smaller journeys. Another tug at the ankle made me think of dark horror movies where hands come out of the ground to pull the living into the soil. “I won’t go without a fight,” I thought with a wry smile.

Working alone does this to you. Imagination fills the woods with magic, mysteries and wild thoughts. Woodpeckers sound like the Predator, “It’s in the trees,” said Billy (in the film) and looking at the amount of deadfall the idea of a 140kg monster marauding around the tree tops doesn’t seem so farfetched. I look up wistfully, gripping the boat hook, the silky saw sheathed – for now. I know a few monsters actually, though they tend to frequent other localities.

Falkirk in Scotland a few days later was one such place – with Mantas Daunekis and CLAYMORE James Stewart being the monsters starring in the main event of ARMGODS Battle of the Pipes. I would guess they weigh 300kg between them and need no makeup to star in horror movies. I’ve gripped up (and lost) to both of them, so have an appreciation of their abilities. ARMGODS are an armwrestling promotion run by Paul Maiden. We’re friends and occasionally I pull, more often I’m the Wrangler (rounding up the pullers to be in the right place for the continuity of the broadcast) or referee. This time I was commentator. Mantas and Jim had a great scrap. I spoke to both after. Obviously, the winner was delighted, the loser less so, though reflective of how next time will be better. The eleven other matches had their own charm for other reasons and I enjoyed them all.

The next morning, I made my way to Edinburgh to a Scottish Judo Veterans training session. On the way I stopped by a section of the Antonine Wall built by the Romans in their conquest of Britain to repel the Scots. I can appreciate their reasoning I thought to myself many hours and bruises later. I learned a lot from them and they are certainly tough. Whilst strolling alongside a riverbank in the sunshine, I reflected on the battles of the weekend and marvelled at the landscape, the building of the wall and a dozen other things. Giant rocks lined the path and I thought about having a go at lifting some like friends do elsewhere. Another time maybe.

A day later, back home to normality and the Monday night session. The judo club had a visitor – Yoko Tanabe, one of the most decorated Judo players ever – came to run a session. I’m lucky. I just keep turning up to things, take the bumps and wonderful things happen. As I type I’m tired and lots of things ache. It seems unthinkable that in just over an hour it will be time to join the class and do it all again.

But I will.

See you down the road.