I am the author of the award winning book From Bullied to Black Belt telling ofjourney from an agoraphobic, panic attack sufferer to award winning fighter & writer. My mission? To help people beat fear into submission & win at life!
A Title for Joe
Written by Simon Morrell, told by Lee Mayo. The ring seems to look at lot different now. It is as if it has more importance attached to it and somehow doesn’t feel the same. Sure, it has the same four sides, the ropes are the same size, the guy in the middle, the one that will call the shots and hopefully keep us safe. Well, he may be a different human in a different suit, but essentially, he is the same man doing the same job he and his have done for centuries, but for me this one just isn’t the same. This one is different for a massive reason and that reason is Joe. And of course, the fact he isn’t here to share it with me, with us. No, but he is the reason I am here at all.
How Sweet Is Your Tea?
Whilst what I write here is on the subject of Martial Arts, the advice on offer can apply to all walks of life by people wanting to better themselves and achieve the achievable...because it’s all achievable. There is nothing we can’t do if we will face our ‘Shugyo’.
A Murder of Crows
A Murder of Crows Tommo, Thomas really, but Tommo is his preferred choice of name, leaves his place of work after a hard day of toil. It is a ghastly factory in an even more ghastly area, but it pays the way in the world. First, he is on the small machines and then, at the hands of a malicious foreman who thinks he should do better, the big machines. The ones that really test you, ones you are only supposed to work for a couple of hours but no, his boss sees to it he is on that bastard for the last five hours of his shift, despite his hands bleeding from his previous three hours. At this point he couldn’t care less as he knows the sunshine will be in his life soon, just as soon as he completes the five-mile walk from factory to freedom. Sometimes this life will do, it is not so bad.
The Rag n Bone Man.
“Can you shift them,Rag n Bone man? Can you?” Not the most welcome of welcomes I’ve ever had, but I’ll take any I can get. My first job for months and all. So I move the sticks, I push the stones, I paint the walls. I do what they ask of me.
Wigwam "One of my Martial Art students recently read British Warrior and approach me after class some time ago. With absolute respect he asked me "How on earth are you still alive?" Good question. My traumas have been many and to this day, I am plagued with almost nightly nightmares and terrors. I sometime wake up screaming and drenched in sweat, Julie rubbing my back as I recall to her that the people who haunted my past still visit me today. It has been suggested I have PTSD and I wouldn't argue with that.
We have all felt it. That feeling you are taking off, moving fast, sometimes too fast. As you take off your heart rate soars, blood pressure rises but you aren’t the pilot in this plane so how could you possibly be in control of it? There is nothing in your power you can do in to stop the crash landing, the inevitable damage, the horror, the tears, the screams and the fear. And then you realise that is all this is. This plane journey is just fear.
What on Earth Am I Doing Here?
It could be fighting out of your depth, a different range you aren’t used to, a puncher grappling, or vice versa. Dealing with the aftermath of an unpleasant situation or one that is still ongoing. One you wish with all your heart you could walk away from, but you can’t. Circumstances don’t allow for escape. You may have taken on a job you thought you could handle, but now? Well, now that job is a bit much, a little bit too far out of your grasp. Or so you think.
Big Sister Leaving Town
The bright lights have always called to me. I mean really, them over this? There isn’t any question. Here its all lager, pool, watching stupid boys fight over meaningless things and then wanting to cop a feel after hours. Yeah, that versus the theatres, restaurants and real nightlife. Go figure.
Sinner Imagine, you really thought only other people would answer for your sins. That crack you gave your youngest lad because he was ten minutes late home from the party. The shame he felt and the laughter you bellowed, when you didn’t realise his mates had come home with him, but they had. Yes indeed they had, and they saw your brutality and shared his shame. Said youngest son flees again. Flees to his bedroom to escape your brutality as you shout after him, “You knew the time I had set you. You are eighteen now, old enough to tell the time.” And then you laugh.