Strongman Read online

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1. Eight Pounds, Fourteen Ounces

  2. Injury Time

  3. Educating Eddie

  4. Swimming Against the Stream

  5. The School of Hard Knocks

  6. A (Swimming) Star in the Making

  7. Game Plan Emerges in Pool

  8. Putting the Boot into Boot Camp

  9. Losing my Way (and Finding It)

  10. Downhill to Expulsion

  11. Twenty Police, Two Brothers

  12. Getting Back on Track

  13. Body Beautiful

  14. Beginnings and Endings

  15. Baby on Board

  16. Going National

  17. My Better Half

  18. Introducing the Spartan

  19. Losing a Contest

  20. A Dramatic Arrival

  21. Planes, Trains and Automobiles

  22. Making a Big Impression in Hungary

  23. Doncaster to L.A.

  24. Deadlift Drama

  25. Mighty Mo

  26. Occupation: Strongman

  27. Attempting the Arnolds

  28. The Beast is Let Loose

  29. Life in the Spotlight

  30. Captured on Camera

  31. Preparing to Lift Half a Tonne

  32. The Day of the Dead(lift)

  33. Two Fingers

  34. The Here and Now

  35. Botswana Diary

  Eddie Hall’s Competition Record

  Picture Section

  Index

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  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.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  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

  PROLOGUE

  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.

  CHAPTER 1

  Eight Pounds, Fourteen Ounces

  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 sh
udder 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.