Tyson Fury - Gloves Off: The Autobiography

Behind the Mask

The Furious Method

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First published by Century in 2022

Copyright Tyson Fury, 2022

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Cover photo Guerin Blask/AUGUST

ISBN: 978-1-804-94158-4

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the authors and publishers rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

This book is dedicated to anyone with mental health problems. Know this: there is hope and nothing is impossible. If I could make my comeback, so can you.

Warning: sensitive content. This book contains depictions of a suicide attempt and suicidal thoughts and may be troubling and triggering for some readers. If you have been affected by mental health problems and have experienced or are experiencing suicidal thoughts please get professional help immediately a list of mental health resources are available at the end of this book. This book draws on my personal experiences, and I hope you may find some of my approaches to mental health useful. But what works for me will not work for everyone and I am not an expert, so you may require medication and medical help.

The author and publishers disclaim, as far as the law allows, any liability arising directly from the use or misuse of the information contained in this book.

23 April 2022. Wembley Stadium. Fury v Whyte.

It was show time, dossers.

And the arena went crazy. Lights and camera flashes flickered around the crowd. Lads threw pints; women screamed my name. And who could blame them? This was a showdown for the history books, a bout against the British heavyweight, Dillian The Body Snatcher Whyte at a rammo Wembley Stadium heaving with 94,000 punters the biggest ever crowd for a European boxing match. After two years of pandemic misery, the country was thirsty for a massive party and The Gypsy King was going to give them one. The hype had been so big that ticket sales for Fury v Whyte outsold some of the most famous names in pop music.

Making an entrance to remember on a night like this was a big deal, so I was carried into the arena on a gold throne. And as I was hoisted into the air, I felt like a master of the universe; this is the superstar atmosphere Ive always enjoyed as a boxer and the experience of connecting with it has always been surreal and incredible. At that moment, I became super-charged, like Id been plugged into the electrics and my adrenaline soared. Not bad for an old, fat fella, I thought, looking around at the craziness. A bald-headed lad from Morecambe, a seaside town in the middle of nowhere But even though I was partying too, my eyes were still fixed on the prize. I needed a win to match the pizzazz.

Id picked a soundtrack to match the mood and it rocked through the Wembley PA. The first cut was Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon a song that had often helped me to find a groove in training. I belted it out with everyone in the stadium, like we were pals in a karaoke pub, or celebrating an England win in the World Cup. The second song, Juicy by rapper The Notorious B.I.G. (AKA Biggie Smalls), was there because its lyrics It was all a dream reminded me of my own life. Being Tyson Fury was like a dream. In Biggies case, hed read hip-hop magazines as a kid, listened to rap radio and stuck pictures of his heroes to the bedroom wall before becoming a legend. Id been the same, but with boxing. Id watched the fights, read about the great heavyweights and tacked photos of my heroes around the place. Some people told me I wouldnt make it as a fighter and the same had been said to Biggie about his music career, but neither of us had listened to the critics, wed both reached for the stars instead. And tonight, I was ready to shine.

The crowd seemed to whirl around me like leaves in a hurricane, and I was the eye. As the noise for my final entrance continued to build, I knew that these were my people and this was my moment. The nine-year-old version of myself would have loved the buzz and the colour. So soak up every second of it, pal, I thought. And when I saw the ring ahead it was hard not to think about what would happen to the boxing world once Id left. Who could fill this void? At that point, retirement was on my mind and about to become a major talking point, but if I walked away for good, the sport would probably return to how it was, pre-Gypsy King, full of boring fighters that very few people cared about. The papers were going to miss me too. I only had to crack open a can of lager, or walk into a pub with my shirt off for them to write a front-page headline.

These were the nights I lived for. I was like a gladiator striding into his arena and it was hard not to feel a sense of pride because my contest with Whyte seemed like so much more than a boxing match. That had a lot to do with the date: 23 April, St Georges Day, a moment in the calendar that means a lot to me because Im very proud of my roots. Fury v Whyte was an all-English clash too, a moment in national sporting history and you know how us English do when it comes to a battle: we hold our shit down. Psychologically, the fact that I was fighting on home turf for the first time in years was a motivational boost. It was a death or glory clash and I wanted to do everything in my power to bring a buzz to the nation.

For this momentous occasion I was wearing a white and red robe, England colours. Id also heard a person could look much bigger than they actually were when dressed in white, thanks to a trick of the eye. (In much the same way that wearing black creates a slimming effect.) To my opponent I must have looked humungous, like a 6 foot 9 monster. And terrifying, because Id picked a pair of specially designed St Georges Cross boxing gloves for the battle. A fist wrapped in a flag. My plan was to smack Whyte in the mouth so hard that the country would be shaking for days afterwards.

Some people were doubting my chances of winning, but no way was I was messing up at Wembley Stadium, and to make sure I ran through my usual pre-match routines during the build-up. In the dressing room, I moved about in my underpants, singing and dancing, cracking jokes, only stopping to take a seat on the massage table to watch the undercard and have my hands wrapped. Ive studied boxers my whole life, as both a fan and a fighter, and knew that before a title bout I was unlike a lot of the others. Stress ricocheted off me, even in a venue as big as Wembley Stadium, and I liked to mess about with the music cranked loud. Ive seen many other changing rooms throughout my career and most of them were like death parties. Youd think the boxers involved were going under the guillotine. Blokes were pale and panting; they shook with nerves and punched the walls as a way of firing themselves up. Everyone alongside them looked frazzled with terror.