Meet the Beast that beat the Mountain.
Eddie ‘The Beast’ Hall is the biggest name and talent in one of the fastest growing sports. In 2017 he was the first Brit in 24 years to win the World’s Strongest Man competition, beating The Mountain from Game of Thrones. He is the biggest superstar you haven’t heard of.
Everything about Eddie is huge. Standing at 6’3 he weighs almost 30 stone, and to make it through his hellish four-hour gym sessions he needs to eat a minimum of 10,000 calories a day. He eats a raw steak during weight sessions. His right eyeball once burst out of its socket under the strain. He put it back in.
The size of Eddie’s fan base now matches his immense frame, with over 1 million followers on social media. He is the subject of a major Netflix documentary, Eddie: Strongman, and he draws crowds of thousands at the strongman arena tour Giants Live.
In his remarkable autobiography, Eddie takes you inside the world of the professional strongman – the nutrition, the training and competitions themselves. This is a visceral story of sporting achievement, an athlete pushing himself to the limits, and the personal journey of a man on the path to becoming being the best of the best.
Eddie Hall was born in Stoke-on-Trent in 1988. His athletic career started as a National Championship swimmer and then he turned his attention to the gym at 15. On leaving school, he worked as a truck mechanic until he was 26, when he became a professional Strongman. Eddie has since dedicated his life to becoming the world’s strongest man.
For Nan and Alex
9 July 2016, 7.45 p.m.
World Deadlift Championship, First Direct Arena, Leeds
‘Fifteen minutes to go, Eddie.’
‘Yeah, all right. Fuck off, will you?’
‘Is there anything you need?’
‘Yeah, there is: for you to fuck off. Don’t worry, dickhead. I’ll be ready.’
This is one of the few occasions when swearing doesn’t get me into a shit load of trouble. They know what I’m like backstage at a competition and so it’s water off a duck’s back. I’ll still apologise later. It’s at the end of the night when the fines start being dished out and it’s usually because somebody’s been daft enough to stick a microphone in front of me.
‘So, Eddie. How do you feel about winning Britain’s Strongest Man?’
‘Fucking excellent, brother.’
‘CUT!’
I’ve already been in trouble once tonight. A few minutes ago I pulled 465kg (1,025 lb), which, although just a stepping stone to the main event, is still a new world record. After the lift the presenter, Colin Bryce, asked me what I was going to do next. ‘Unleash the beast,’ was what I meant to say, but when I opened my mouth and started speaking, a word beginning with F found its way into the sentence. The crowd also know what I’m like and they thought it was hilarious.
I don’t do it to impress anybody or to piss anybody off. I do it because, rightly or wrongly, it’s part of who I am and it’s almost impossible for me to deviate from that. There is no ‘Eddie Zero’, I’m afraid. No low-calorie alternative. I’m full fat, mate, and – much to my mum’s regret and embarrassment – another word beginning with F.
In fifteen minutes’ time, at precisely 8 p.m., I will pull 500kg (1,102 lb) in front of 10,000 people and in doing so become the first human being in the history of the world to lift half a tonne. Let me say that again, boys and girls: half a tonne. That’s about the same weight as an overfed racehorse.
Notice I’ve left out the words ‘attempt to’, by the way. The definition of the word attempt is ‘to make an effort to achieve’, which means there is always a possibility of failure. Not tonight. Not here. This, my friend, is history in the making and ensuring such occurrences take place is the reason I have been put on this earth. Some people are here to build houses and work in banks, and some people are here to change the world.
Being a foul-mouthed history-making cheeky behemoth does come at a cost, however. Ever since agreeing to do the lift I have had to virtually ignore my wife and kids and over the last six months I have spent no more than a few hours in their company. That in itself has obviously been a massive sacrifice for all of us, but in truth it’s just the tip of the iceberg. My daily routine has been to eat, sleep, train, recover and repeat, and in addition to a couple of short but extremely severe bouts of depression, which I think were triggered by stress and isolation, I have gradually become less mobile. This is because, in order to lift such a massive weight, I have had to put on an extra 15kg (33 lb) in weight and right now I am just over thirty-one stone. My God, it’s been hard though. I have suffered all kinds of pain over the years but preparing for this has been a different kind of hell and even now I am in a very, very dark place.
As I sit quietly in the dressing room I suddenly belch, and am reminded of what I had for my dinner – or lunch, if you’re posh. Whilst everyone else will have been tucking into sandwiches or burgers, I was in a restaurant ordering a mouth-watering lump of fat taken straight from a massive joint of gammon. In terms of taste it was probably one of the most disgusting meals I’ve ever eaten, but in terms of calories, it was the dog’s. About 4,000, all told.
You see, to me, when it comes to milestones, the half-tonne deadlift is right up there with the four-minute mile and if anybody ever manages to break the record once I’ve smashed it – and they will – it will be my record they’re breaking. Let’s face it, nobody gives a damn who holds the current record for running a mile, and why would they? Whoever holds the record is simply clinging to the coattails of greatness. The only name that matters when it comes to running the mile is Roger Bannister, and why? Because he proved the naysayers wrong and did what everyone said was impossible. He became – and remains – the benchmark and regardless of the fact that the record he set is now slow in comparison to today’s athletes, it is the only one we really care about. He walks (or runs) on a higher plane to the rest and in a few minutes’ time he’ll have to make some room – quite a bit of room, actually – for me.
The reason this is relevant now is because the only person in this entire arena who thinks I’m going to pull this lift is me. Some of my mates probably think I have a chance, but the bookies are offering odds of 25/1 and so have me down as a complete no-hoper. That’s fine though. Other people’s doubt is my biggest motivation and the fact that the no’s are unanimous makes it a forgone conclusion as far as I’m concerned.
‘OK, we’re ready for you, Eddie.’
‘Come on then, fucker, lead the way.’
After a quick detour to a disabled toilet, which I’ll explain later, my three-man entourage and I make our way to the stage. As we pass the other athletes one or two of them shout, ‘Good luck, Ed,’ but I know not one of them thinks I can do it. Seeing them all staring at me is like a last-minute shot of adrenalin.
One man not staring at me from the pool of athletes, but whose words echo through my mind, is four-time World’s Strongest Man, Brian Shaw. Brian should be here, but he pulled out of the event announcing that 500kg was ridiculous. In fact, the current World’s Strongest Man had publicly proclaimed that 480kg (1,058 lb) was the absolute max he thought was doable by anyone.
As we walk on I over Žydrūnas Savickas – arguably the strongest men in history – voicing his concerns about the feat I’m about to attempt. ‘What happens to the human body at such a weight,’ he says. ‘I am not sure we are designed to handle that amount. It is a little dangerous but we shall see.’
I respect both men but I will make them eat their words.
We’re almost at the stage now and I can hear the MC warming up the crowd. This is supposed to be the support event for Europe’s Strongest Man but it should be the other way around. Whoever wins that title won’t be making history. They won’t be on Roger Bannister’s higher plane.
As I walk through the curtain onto the stage the first thing I see is the crowd, all 10,000 of them. The biggest audience ever for a strongman event. A hit of smelling salts brings that familiar wild, yet strangely pleasurable pain burning through my skull. I gesture to the crowd to make some noise and they respond with a deafening roar. This, right now, is the deepest, darkest moment of my life.
Over the past twenty years only 9kg (20 lb) has been added to the world deadlift record. What am I going to add? 35kg (77 lb)? Bloody hell.
As I bend down and put the straps around my hands everything goes quiet. I’m locked in now. I am in the zone, as they say. I’ve visualised this moment a thousand times and I’ve practiced it a thousand more. Rep after rep of drills, hour after hour of training in the gym has led me to this moment. I’ll hear the crowd again once I’ve locked my back out, but for the next ten seconds or so it’s just me and the bar.
As I find my grip, I see, just fleetingly, a picture of my family in my mind’s eye. It’s a quick but important reminder of exactly why I’m doing this.
I’m happy with the grip now, so am ready to go.
OK, Roger. Shove up a bit, mate. It’s time to make some history.
BELIEVE IT OR not, give or take a pound or two, my weight has always matched my age (or at least it did until I hit twenty-nine stone). So at the time of writing I’m nearly thirty years old and a nice healthy thirty-odd stone. At six foot three inches I’m quite a noticeable presence in a confined space, shall we say.
When they meet me, a lot of people say that they can’t imagine me being anything other than big, so these first few chapters are going to be a bit of a revelation to some. It’s the same when Mum and Dad get the photograph albums out. Whoever’s unlucky enough to be shown them will see one of me as a kid messing about on a beach or something, and then say, ‘Naaaa. That can’t be Eddie!’ It gets on my tits sometimes.
Anyway, you can check this with my mum if you like but at birth, I, Edward Stephen Hall, weighed eight pounds and fourteen ounces exactly, having been born at North Staffs Maternity Hospital to Stephen and Helen Hall at 4.59 p.m. on Friday 15 January 1988. According to the internet I share a birthday with Martin Luther King Jr and the rapper Pitbull, which actually makes perfect sense: a man who inspired millions and a success story who’s named after an angry and potentially dangerous dog. I’ll take that. What is perhaps more relevant is the fact that I seem to be the only sportsperson of note to have been born on 15 January 1988. As somebody who doesn’t like sharing things – especially titles, world records and podiums – that suits me down to the ground.
According to Mum and Dad I was a very happy and easygoing baby who loved being cuddled; particularly by Mum and her own mum, Nan. Nan was an amazing woman and when I started getting into trouble she was one of the only people who could get through to me. More about that later.
I have two older brothers, Alex and James, and while Mum and Nan wanted to hug me, those two wanted to kill me. I don’t think there was any jealousy involved, like there is in some cases. They just saw a fat little shit move into the house and decided they were going to kick his ass.
One of the earliest examples of this reprehensible behaviour happened when I was just a few weeks old. My brother, James, who today plays professional rugby for Bristol yet still weighs a mere eighteen stone, decided to lift me up by my neck and then drop me on the floor, and because he was only about eighteen months old he obviously got away with it. I’d like to see him try that now. In fact, I’d like to see anybody try it. My eldest brother, Alex, who was three when I was born and is now about a foot shorter (ha ha), probably did the same and worse when nobody else was looking and so the fact that I made it to nine months is a miracle.
The reason I mention this particular age is that it heralded my first visit back to a hospital, yet strangely enough it had nothing to do with either of my homicidal siblings. The problem started when I suddenly began sleeping about twenty-three hours a day. Although Mum and Dad must have been relieved by this, it obviously wasn’t normal and so I was taken into hospital to have a few tests. The diagnosis was severe anaemia and once they managed to get a bit more iron into me I was fine. Children and babies are especially susceptible to anaemia during periods of rapid growth and so looking back I’m surprised I didn’t get it every week.
By the time I was about a year old I could punch, bite and elbow and by eighteen months I’d started kicking, stamping and headbutting. This might sound a little bit hardcore to some people but it was simply a matter of survival. A quick argument would take place first – an accusation of some kind probably, or just an insult – and then, once we’d got all that preliminary crap out of the way, it would be straight down to business – BOOM! It was toddler warfare. We’d start off in the living room, punching, kicking and throwing each other off the furniture and then once we’d become tired of using our limbs to inflict injury we’d go looking for weapons. Things like remote controls were always the first to hand but the damage you could do with one of those was limited so in an act of desperation we’d try picking up chairs or even the bloody coffee table. There was a lot of shouting, a shit load of swearing and lots of cries of ‘AAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
Once we’d exhausted the living room a natural break would occur when we’d catch our breath and try to think of the location of some suitable – and preferably lethal – weaponry. One by one we’d go darting off to wherever the arms were concealed and then once we were all tooled up and back in the room it would start again.
‘Right you bastard! Now I’m going to kill you. AAAAAAAARGH!’
I remember our dad used to have a replica samurai sword and whoever managed to get their hands on that first obviously had the upper hand. Or the upper cut, if you like. We used to chase each other around the house with this and the only thing that prevented us from taking a swipe and probably killing each other was the fact that it weighed quite a bit so we couldn’t swing it properly. Eventually Dad realised what was happening and locked the thing away and it’s a damn good job he did as I shudder to think what might have happened otherwise.
Our mum must have had the patience of a stadium full of saints when dealing with us. As we became older and stronger it obviously became more and more difficult to split us up and so in the end she would just put each of us in one of the bedrooms hoping that we’d play quietly. She should have done that from the off, really. Either that or just sedated us.
Unfortunately, this boisterous behaviour wasn’t just confined to home and even a quick trip to the shops would often turn nasty. I know that all brothers fight a bit but that’s all we ever did. There was never any downtime. Or, if there was, it was simply the calm before the next storm. Mum and Dad recently reminded me of a day trip to Blackpool we tried to make in the early 1990s. Notice I say ‘tried’ to make. Apparently, we had an Austin Montego at the time which means sod all to me but one of the reasons Mum and Dad had bought the car was because it had two rear-facing seats in the boot so that me, Alex and James wouldn’t have to sit next to each other. Nice try! It was going to take more than a couple of rear-facing seats to stop the war. Even though we weren’t able to hit each other we could still have a go verbally. And we did. Threats of what we’d do to each other once we reached Blackpool began being issued before we’d even left our road and by the time we reached junction 19 of the M6, which was about twenty-five miles from home, Dad had had enough.
‘THAT’S IT! WE’RE GOING HOME.’
At first I think we thought it was just an idle threat and so we carried on. It wasn’t, though. Dad was serious, and who can blame him? Sure enough, he came off at junction 19, went straight around the roundabout, and started heading back to Stoke.
‘I’m not putting up with that for another eighty miles,’ he said. ‘No way!’
In an act of defiance, Alex, James and I bawled our fucking eyes out all the way home and made far more noise than we had done arguing. Poor Dad was at the end of his tether by the time we got back and he had to lock himself in a room for a few hours. I’m surprised he didn’t stay there longer. So much for a family day out.
Despite the aggro, we have always been a very close family – very pro each other – and, although I didn’t know it at the time, the fighting would pay dividends once I was let loose onto the streets. Since the pottery industry disappeared, Stoke-on-Trent has become quite a deprived area. In order to survive, you have two choices: hide away and keep yourself to yourself or become street-wise and be prepared to put the boot in when necessary. I obviously chose the latter and if I hadn’t had that apprenticeship in extreme violence and savagery I’d have found it very, very hard indeed.
Something that really exemplifies my choice – not to mention my mindset, back then – is the content of my very earliest memory. I must have been about three and a half years old and still at nursery and I remember this kid came up to me and started pissing me off. I can’t remember what he did exactly but I remember telling him to fuck off. Even then I was using some pretty industrial language but that was the norm, not just in our house, but in the entire city. The kid went off to get a teacher and after I’d been duly reprimanded the little bastard slyly said something else to me and so I headbutted him and gave him a black eye. Headbutting has always been a speciality of mine and even at three and a half years old I was up there with the best of them. I may not have been very tall at the time but put me on a box and I could have floored an adult. Fortunately, that’s not my only memory from childhood, but it’s definitely my earliest. A psychologist would probably have a field day with something like that.
I think what also helped in preparing me for life on the streets was the fact that at home there was never any hiding place. So regardless of what age you were you had no choice other than to stand there and defend yourself. It didn’t matter what the other one had in his hands (bar a samurai sword!); you had to put your head down and have a go, and that’s exactly what we did. Once again it was fight or flight and the latter was never, ever an option – nor would you ever want to take it. Even when Mum put us in different rooms we’d still walk around like miniature caged beasts, shouting and banging on the doors. There was no retreat, no surrender, and very little by way of defence. It was as if we’d all been stuck in attack mode.
One of the things that encouraged us to behave like that, I think, was the fact that we never established a dialogue between us. So instead of saying ‘Can I play with that toy?’ or ‘Are you going to eat that fish finger?’, we simply took the toy or ate the fish finger. The victim would obviously respond to this in kind and there you would have it – constant fucking chaos! Mum and Dad used to intervene occasionally, but even then, we’d be back scrapping within a few seconds. Mum, who is one of the world’s greatest human beings, was always the peacemaker – encouraging us to shake hands and be nice to each other – and Dad was the loud authoritarian character who would just explode when he’d had enough. He’s a big lad, my old man – about six foot two inches – and once he’d reached his cut-off point you knew about it. In that respect, I’m exactly the same as him, as when I do lose my rag I go nuclear, but because I’ve also inherited some of Mum’s patience I can generally prevent myself from getting into trouble. Well, sometimes.
The other thing, apart from aggro – and a bit of love, it has to be said – that was prevalent in the Hall household was competition, and that too has served me well over the years, although more so since I took up sport.
It was there from day one really and, again, it was all a result of good old-fashioned sibling rivalry. According to Mum, I’d watch James and Alex walking when I was baby and as soon as I was able to copy them, I was off. What eventually changed was the fact that, instead of simply wanting to emulate my brothers, I wanted to beat the bastards, and so that obviously added to the tension within the household. If they ran to the end of the garden in ten seconds, I’d want to do it in nine, and if they jumped off a wall, I’d have to find a higher one. It became a bit of an obsession with me.
What also made things interesting was our height. I’m taller than James and Alex (Alex is about five foot eleven inches, James is six foot and I’m six foot three inches) and from the age of about five until I got to high school we were all roughly the same height. This meant that nobody was at a disadvantage. It also presented us with another opportunity to piss each other off and for a time that became the big motivator. Fortunately, we started to appreciate how futile that was and so we began to concentrate on our own ambitions. The rivalry was always bubbling somewhere underneath though.
Genetically, I think we have my mother to thank for our competitiveness as – in addition to retraining to become a firefighter a few years ago after spending years teaching kids with special needs – she’s also started competing in Iron Man Triathlons. For those of you who don’t know, this consists of a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride and then a full marathon. That takes some serious training and dedication and she’s more than a match for it. Part of Mum’s motivation is a simple desire to keep fit but she’s certainly not there just to make up the numbers and that, I think, is really what drives her on.
I’ve never asked her about this but if I were a betting man – and I am – I’d say that one of the reasons Mum sometimes left the three of us to get on with trying to compete with each other (and it did become a bit ridiculous at times) was because she was hoping we’d develop a desire to succeed. If that was her modus operandi, it worked. But what separates me from Alex and James is the fact that I’ve always taken this hunger to achieve to ridiculous extremes. In fact, that’s a pretty accurate description for me. A ridiculous extreme.
Anyway, let’s get onto Dad.
Since becoming a strongman I’ve had to sacrifice all kinds of things – time with my family being the most troublesome and upsetting – but this is really small fry to what my old man has given up. He worked as a health and safety officer in the same factory for over twenty-five years and because of the hours he worked we hardly ever saw him. Even when we did see Dad he was stressed out; a direct consequence of coming home from a job that was repetitive and unchallenging and going straight into a warzone.
He didn’t have time for hobbies or anything and because he’s got a good brain on him that must have been extremely stifling. There was no ‘me time’ for Dad and no shed to disappear to. Because he remained dedicated to his job we were not only able to live in a nice house and never want for anything, but we were also free to get out there and try to realise our potential, knowing that – unless it was something dangerous or stupid – we would always receive his and Mum’s full support. Basically, we got everything Dad should have had but couldn’t, which is why I cringe sometimes when I think about the way we used to behave. Fancy walking into that, day after day. Some lesser men wouldn’t have come home, but not Dad. He was obviously a glutton for punishment – thank God.
The saving grace with regards to our relationship with Dad was our annual family holiday, and because of his endeavours we were able to go to some really special places. It was the one time during the year we’d be able to spend time with him in a relaxed atmosphere. Portugal always seemed to be our family’s destination of choice back then and we’d spend all day every day just chilling by the pool, having barbecues and lazing on the beach. Even the fighting used to lessen a bit during these special times and that was solely because we were all so pleased to see Dad carefree and happy for a while. He was a completely different person on holiday and that change in mood was wonderfully contagious.
Once we were back home, things would return to normal pretty quickly and before you could say ‘seconds out, round one’, the three amigos would be making up for lost time by smashing remote controls over each other’s head, issuing death threats and making our ever-patient mother’s life an absolute misery. I expect Dad was relieved to get back to work.
As well as spending some quality time with my family, those holidays taught me a very important lesson in life and that is to be grateful for what you have and to always look for the positives, however well hidden they are. The human brain will generally err toward the negative and that can often cloud your better judgement. That’s something that’s helped me, not just as a human being but as an athlete. When your brain’s telling you that something’s crap and that your life’s a pile of shit, the chances are the thought is exactly that, a pile of shit.
I think Mum and Dad knew that one day the fighting would come to an end and, bar moving us all to a sodding zoo, there was bugger all they could do about it until then. Sure enough, when we got to our early teens – or when I did – we gave up fighting almost overnight and suddenly started talking to one another. We became mates, I suppose, and it’s been exactly the same ever since. We still had our moments, of course, but because we’d finally learned how to talk to one another and show an interest in each other’s lives, the fighting was usually averted and conversations took place instead. Pretty sweary ones, it has to be said, but conversations just the same. I remember thinking to myself after talking to Alex one day, Wow! My brother’s not a snivelling arsehole after all. He’s actually OK.
But if that was a revelation for the three of us – and it was – what must it have been like for Mum and Dad? To be honest, I think it was just a massive relief. In fact, it probably knocked years off them. Like an early retirement! They’re great though, and all three of us think the sun shines out of their fu … We think the world of them.
BELIEVE IT OR not, one of my first talents as a young child was having injuries and accidents. In fact, if I ever have to write a CV it’s something I’ll probably include.
CURRENT JOB: PROFESSIONAL STRONGMAN
SPECIAL SKILLS: STABBING MYSELF AND FALLING ARSE OVER TIT
All kids have accidents, of course, but from the age of about four onwards I seemed to develop a knack, and although this may sound strange I think I became addicted to them. It won’t surprise you to know that one of my very first injuries, which was definitely not an accident, was perpetrated by the only person I can honestly say that I was scared of as a small child – my brother James. He was an absolute headcase from the year dot and as well as being my hero, in a way (as was Alex), he was also my nemesis.
The injury James inflicted on me was caused by him throwing ice in my face, the bastard. It was close range too, so there was never any question of it being an accident. The only thing I do question is whether or not he sharpened the ice before he threw it because it made a real mess of my face and I had stitches everywhere.
How much of it was already within me I’m not altogether sure, but these unending battles with James either established or aroused in me an almost impenetrable sense of bravery, which, on some occasions, has enabled me to take on multitudes of men without even batting an eyelid. I can honestly say that since overcoming my fear of fighting James I have never once gone into a scrap feeling scared, regardless of the numbers or the situation. Excited? Oh yes. Exhilarated? Definitely. But that raw emotion of fear, which can often be crippling, is something that deserted me long ago and was immediately replaced by a feeling of self-assurance. I actually felt invincible from the age of about four, which is ridiculous when you think about it. This is something that has been growing within me ever since then and as well as becoming an intrinsic part of my weaponry it is probably the one thing that separates me from my competitors in strongman. That, and being absolutely fucking excellent, of course. People may only have been calling me ‘The Beast’ for the last couple of years, but I think I’ve been one for least twenty-five.
My next mishap of note involves me falling out of a tree and although you might think this quite a standard childhood injury, I can promise you it was anything but.
James was with me – naturally – and I think we’d challenged each other as to who could climb the highest. Because I was now confident and competitive, I just kept on going while James had the good sense to stop. Even when I knew I’d climbed higher than he had and I was running out of tree, I refused to stop. Eventually one of the branches snapped and down I came. I must have fallen at least thirty or forty feet and the faster I fell the harder I hit the branches, and the closer I got to the ground the bigger and harder the branches became. By the time I eventually landed I was in all kinds of agony, and as well as a broken arm I had bumps on my head the size of bull’s testicles and was covered in about a hundred bruises.
My immediate reaction was to call to James and ask him to get Mum and Dad, but as he ran off in the direction of the house I suddenly started to laugh. I had never, ever felt pain like it before yet in a strange sort of way I almost enjoyed it. I remember saying to myself, This is fucking brilliant! I’d just fallen out of a massive tree and had survived. It felt like an achievement.
A minute or so later, as I started to relive what had happened, an overwhelming sense of excitement surged through my body, almost cancelling out the pain, and I swear that if I had been physically able to I would have climbed the tree and done it again.
Does that make me sound a bit weird? I suppose it does but then I probably am a bit. You have to be, if you’re going to be me.
The next incident is a little bit gorier and took place on a family holiday to Portugal when I was five. As well as Mum, Dad and the three of us brothers, we also had Dad’s parents with us, Grandad and Grandma, and as far as I remember the first few days were great: it was red hot and the pool was massive. Or at least it was to me.
One afternoon, about four or five days into the holiday, Grandad decided he wanted an orange and proceeded to peel one in the kitchen, with me watching him, unobserved. I don’t think I’d ever seen anybody peel an orange with a knife before and remember thinking, Good skills, Grandad! I was amazed by the way the skin came off in one continuous twirl and it can’t have taken him more than a few seconds. Shortly after he’d finished he left the room and I decided to give it a go myself. After taking an orange from the fruit bowl I pulled up a stool from the breakfast bar, took the knife from the sink and as I tried to stick the knife into the orange, it went straight through my left hand. Within about a second the orange was blood-red and there were people absolutely everywhere. It was chaos. The knife Grandad had used was thin and razor sharp so it was never going to end happily. That said, it went through my hand very easily and so when Dad pulled it out it wasn’t a problem.
As opposed to taking me to hospital, which would have meant claiming on the insurance, my grandma stitched up my hand using a very fine needle and I don’t remember there being any tears at all. In fact, she coped very well! Well done, Grandma. It honestly didn’t bother me though and because the gash wasn’t too big the pain was minimal. Most kids would have been vomiting and screaming their little arses off but it was water off a duck’s back to me. I’m not trying to make myself sound tough, by the way. I’m not into all that bollocks and I’ve got nothing whatsoever to prove. It was just the way I was. It’s always the inconvenience of being injured that bothers me most, as opposed to the injury itself.
A few days later, whilst still in Portugal, we were about to go for a walk and as I was sat on the tiled floor putting on my sandals, my dad, who was wearing clogs at the time – although don’t ask me why – stood on one of my fingers by mistake and completely ripped off my fingernail. Imagine a size 11 solid wood clog with about sixteen stone of man standing in it suddenly landing on your fingernail. That particular episode was definitely less enjoyable than the tree or the orange and I remember getting a kick up the arse for calling Dad a … something quite rude.
From the point of view of simply staying alive, the worst thing that could have happened to me at this time was finding somebody even more dangerous to emulate than James and Alex, but that’s exactly what did happen.
In truth, it was only a character from a film, but the man who played him went on to become my biggest inspiration outside of my family. As well as being lucky enough to have met the great man in later life, I was also proud to have him present at two of my deadlift records; he was actually at my side cheering me on at both of them. He is the incredible Mr Arnold Schwarzenegger and when I was about five years old his most iconic film role gave me somewhere to channel all of this confidence, energy and bravery that was running through my five-stone frame. I almost died in the process, but it felt great!
The fictional character in question is obviously the Terminator and over the years I must have watched the film at least a hundred times. I actually think it was still an eighteen certificate back then so I started watching it a good thirteen years early. Mum and Dad would have had a fit if they’d found out but I’m so glad they didn’t.
Like millions of other kids, I wanted to be Arnolds Schwarzenegger’s seemingly indestructible cybernetic android and after becoming completely and utterly obsessed with the character I set about trying to copy him and even made up some of my own stunts. These included throwing myself off bikes at high speed, jumping off high walls and trying to land on one foot, and even throwing myself out of trees instead of just falling out of them. Looking back it must have seemed like I had some kind of death wish but I remember feeling so pumped up at having something to aim towards.
Mmmmm. I think I needed to go to school!
I THINK MY parents were hoping that school might tame me a bit and, despite me not being the ideal pupil, it probably did for the first few months. I was obviously out of my comfort zone a bit and without my brothers being there I had to establish myself as an individual.
Educationally I was a bit of a paradox, I suppose, because as well as being easily distracted I was also the one most willing to try. Regardless of whether I knew the answer or not I would always be the first to put my hand up when the teacher asked a question. If I didn’t know the answer, I’d just guess – but I had to be the first. I obviously wasn’t a shy boy but my main motivation wasn’t getting the question right, it was seeking the approval of others. So whenever I did manage to answer a question correctly and was congratulated by the teacher I’d almost explode with pride. That’s something that has never left me. Even today, if I win a competition, a text from my mum saying ‘Well done son, I’m proud of you’ will mean more to me than any trophy. Making people proud or pleased, however trivial the situation or the circumstances, is the main reason I do what I do.
With regards to my behaviour at primary school, let’s just say that it was a game of two halves. My first school, Friarswood, is undoubtedly a wonderful educational establishment now but twenty-odd years ago my group of mates would be there telling the teachers to fuck off. Every break time there’d be a big group of us – seven, eight and nine year olds – smoking behind the bike sheds and fighting each other … these were the kids I always gravitated towards and them to me.
It wasn’t that I necessarily liked many of them. They were just a lot more exciting than the bright kids and the one thing I couldn’t live without was excitement. When I was with my brothers there was never, ever a dull moment and when they both went to school I was bored shitless. Being with kids full-time again made me want to try to replicate what my brothers and I had at home. Although it was never the same as it was with Alex and James, it was better than sitting on my own or with a load of uncool boffins.
The only real bright spot throughout my entire sentence at Friarswood was my reception teacher, Mrs Vivian Mills. She was like a beacon of positivity and calmness in a period of my life that I considered to be a massive inconvenience, but because she only taught me during my first year at the school her influence sadly wore off pretty quickly. When Mrs Mills spoke, everybody sat up and listened. Not because she was commanding (although she was), but because she always had something interesting to say. That much I do remember. Unbeknownst to me, Mrs Mills must have followed my progress in strongman and when I finally went professional back in 2014 she tracked me down and handed me a cheque for £200.
‘I read that you’d gone professional Eddie,’ she said giving me a peck on the cheek. ‘So here’s something to help you on your way.’
It was fabulous seeing her again and was an amazing gesture. That’s the mark of the woman and people like her change lives. Luckily for me, she wasn’t the only person who was to have a positive influence on me during these years.
One of my parents’ many attempts at giving me an interest other than roughhousing and inflicting injury was offering me piano lessons when I was nine. I don’t mind admitting that I was horrified when they first suggested it. I was a miniature thug for Christ’s sake, whose hobbies included smashing bottles over people’s heads and using four-letter words beginning with F and C. I couldn’t think of anything more diametrically opposed to what I enjoyed doing than learning a flaming instrument, which was probably the reason Mum and Dad tried to get me into it. Piano lessons! I could have died.
My teacher, who lived on our street, was called Mrs Winder and she and her husband had lived in the area for years. She must have been in her sixties at the time and when I turned up for my first lesson I was, not to put too fine a point on it, somewhat lacking in enthusiasm.
‘You must be Eddie,’ she said on opening the door. ‘Come on in.’
Mrs Winder had a very kind face and from the moment I set eyes on her I felt completely at ease. This wasn’t how I was used to feeling when I met new people. Something was obviously wrong.
‘Before we start, let’s have a quick chat,’ said Mrs Winder. ‘I want to know all about you.’
Again, that wasn’t how people spoke to me.
‘All right then,’ I said. ‘What do you want to know?’
After asking me some questions about school and stuff, Mrs Winder turned the conversation to music.
‘Do you like music, Eddie?’ she said.
I just shrugged. ‘Only the Beatles,’ I answered truthfully. ‘Mum and Dad used to play them in the car.’
‘OK then. Let’s see if we can find something you like.’
By this time I remember thinking that I didn’t want to play the piano or listen to music, I just wanted to carry on talking to Mrs Winder. I’ve always enjoyed the company of older people and there was something about her I really liked.
‘Tell me what you think of this,’ she said, before picking out some music and sitting down at the piano.
The tune she played was ‘Love Me Do’ by the Beatles and I grinned from ear to ear as I began to recognise what she was playing.
‘It’s the Beatles,’ I said approvingly.
‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Winder. ‘If you practise hard enough you might be able to play that one day.’
That was all the incentive I needed and over the next two years or so I became quite a proficient little pianist. Impatient, but then isn’t every child when they start learning a new instrument? In the end I could turn my hand to most styles of music but I always ended up playing either the Beatles or John Lennon. ‘Imagine’ was my favourite. It still is.
What was even more enjoyable than the music – and, in all honesty, was the reason I stuck it out for so long – was my unique friendship with Mrs Winder. It might sound slightly ridiculous to some people but going to her house became one of the highlights of my week and, as much as I enjoyed tickling the ivories and paying homage to the Fab Four, it was the conversation running alongside that fired me and caught my imagination. Mrs Winder and I would talk throughout each lesson and I’d tell her things that I wouldn’t dream of telling my parents, or even my friends for that matter. No subject ever seemed to be off limits and I knew that whatever truths or revelations I divulged would never go any further. Mrs Winder knew that I was a bit of a tearaway but there was obviously something about me she liked and knowing that made me feel great.
The lessons were like a cross between a confessional and a counselling session and in hindsight I should have carried them on into adulthood. In fact, if you’re still alive, Mrs Winder, get in touch!
Domestically, there was only one person who could bring out the best in me without trying, and that was Nan my mum’s mum. As much as I love my parents, they obviously represented authority and because they had to spend so much of their time telling me off and answering letters from school, our relationship was often fraught.
Being with Nan, though, was like being wrapped in a warm blanket. Whenever I was with her all the anger I felt just disappeared. In every other situation there’d be aggro of some kind bubbling underneath but with her it was different. I could never scowl at my nan like I’d scowl at Mum and Dad. It was just unthinkable. I only smiled when I was with her.
Occasionally she’d offer me little bits of advice and if she’d heard about me being naughty she’d smile at me and say, ‘Eeee, what have you been up to now, Eddie?’ She never judged me. In fact, I don’t remember Nan ever judging anybody.
What she gave me more than anything was unconditional love and for somebody who pissed a lot of people off and had a lot of things going on in his head that was incredibly important. It didn’t matter how many people I’d infuriated or how aggrieved I felt, Nan’s love would wash it all away. She was my lifeblood.
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