VICE UK - SPORTSRSS feed for https://www.vice.com/en/topic/sportshttps://www.vice.com/en%2Ftopic%2Fsports%3Flocale%3Den_ukenTue, 27 Jun 2023 07:45:00 GMT<![CDATA[Exercising as a Fat Person Isn't Easy – And Not For the Reason You Think]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/n7ejj8/exercising-as-a-fat-personTue, 27 Jun 2023 07:45:00 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE Belgium.

Right before my 34th birthday, I made a decision that might seem mundane to most, but wasn’t for me: I signed up to my local gym. There were a few reasons for this. I was sick of having constant back pain, courtesy of my desk job and anxiety-driven muscle tension. I also noticed I’d lost physical endurance during lockdown, after too much sitting – one of modern life’s great poisons. So I wanted to prove to myself that I was capable of honouring a monthly subscription, and maybe even enjoying it. 

I don’t regret the decision. In fact, now I can’t imagine life without my bi-weekly sessions. They allow me to keep up my cardio, do core exercises that soothe my back and get the elusive gift of a good night’s sleep. What, you might ask, made the whole thing so difficult for me in the first place? Simple: I’m fat.

Fat people often have a conflicted relationship with physical activity. Deep-seated memories of gym class have left us humiliated and with a conviction that our bodies are ugly and not to be seen in public. Doctors, loved ones and the media bombard us with the message that we’ll die of a heart attack in five years if we don’t lose weight now. And yet, research linking body weight to health conditions like heart disease is increasingly debated and criticised for anti-fat bias.

What we do know is that exercising is key to living a longer, healthier life for people of all sizes – independently of whether it leads to weight loss or not. But the truth is, when you try to follow this advice, you’re often faced with deeply discouraging societal messages that can end up stopping you in your tracks.

For me, the first step into my fitness journey began with overcoming a series of demeaning beliefs I’d internalised about working out as a fat person. Thoughts like, “I’m too fat to do sports” or “I’ll look stupid if I run out of breath or get sweaty”. But of course, these mental blocks weren’t born out of thin air – they’re the result of a barrage of fatphobic comments that are still really common in society.

Earlier this year, I came across a tweet by American-Canadian conservative personality Steve Crowder shaming a fat woman – who was impressively balancing on her head in the video – for drinking Gatorade during her yoga session. Apparently, the sports drink is “unhealthy” or so he said to his two million followers. Yet somehow, I’d never heard him or anyone else call out a skinny fitness influencer for consuming it.

As it happens, the woman in the picture was Jessamyn Stanley, an American yoga teacher, author and self-proclaimed “Beyoncé of yoga”. After discovering Bikram yoga in 2011, Jessamyn began practising regularly in 2013. In a 2015 interview with The Cut, she explains how she found her place in this world despite not having one of the “typical yoga bodies” (thin, white, able) and the fact that most yoga studios aren’t accessible to people outside of that norm. 

And truly, your mind must be warped by fatphobia to tweet that Jessamyn Stanley is “unhealthy” when she’s skilled enough to hold herself in Sirsasana – a pose requiring enormous flexibility and muscle control. In Sirsasana, your entire body weight rests on your head and forearms, and it’s very easy to get your cervical vertebrae injured if you don’t know what you’re doing. Obviously, that tweet had nothing to do with Gatorade.

Jessamyn Stanley’s story reminds me that if I can’t maintain a half-shoulder stand pose, it’s not because my pelvis is too heavy and impossible to hold up, it’s because I need to keep exercising regularly. Our shared body type and weight aren’t obstacles to strengthening muscles and balance. My abs may be hiding, but they really are there!

But far too many people still can’t fathom you can be both fat and athletic. And those people really need to stop giving us their unsolicited opinions on our lifestyle (supposed or real) and stop publicly humiliating us as if we were still in school. 

Trainer Ève – a friend of mine who’s asked to use an alias to speak more freely, like others in this piece – has learned to always ask people in her classes why they signed up for a gym membership. “You can’t just assume it’s to lose weight,” she says. 

When I visited her gym, I noticed it has no mirrors, an increasingly popular setup that can put customers who are unhappy with their bodies, or their athletic abilities, more at ease. Obviously, I didn’t ask everyone there about their thoughts on it, but the fact that I saw a variety of ages and body types there led me to think it’s probably appreciated.

Not being the only fat person in the room always makes me feel better, and so does not being the oldest – but that’s a different story. I did have to modify a few yoga or barre poses to fit my belly and be able to breathe correctly. But everything was more or less accessible to me, from the gym’s entryway turnstiles to the showers. 

When I was a pool regular, I felt a little bit more comfortable, probably because the atmosphere was less intimate overall. Once in the water, my body felt as light as a thin person’s. By contrast, when I signed up for the gym, I worried I’d be unwelcome, that I’d run into trainers telling me to lose my nasty extra weight, that other club members would give me bad looks. Luckily, none of that ever happened.

Looking at my body, I know that I’m on the smaller side of the plus-size spectrum. I wear a size 48 (UK 20), sometimes a bit bigger depending on the brand, particularly in sports brands – ironic, right? I know where to buy what I need without having to search too long or pay too much extra. But that’s not true for everyone.

“No activewear fits my size 64-66 [UK 36-38],” says Marion, an Instagram acquaintance who often shares her workout routines as a very fat person. “My outfits cost a lot thanks to the plus-size surcharge, or wear out very quickly because they’re not made for sports, and honestly, they were never really well-made or comfortable either.” 

The plus-size surcharge is the practice of charging up to 30 percent more for plus-size lines. Clothing brands justify these extra cost as additional material expenses and the need to pattern garments differently to fit curvy bodies. Some brands were even found to charge only female customers more, keeping the price of male plus size clothing the same. Critics say these production costs are minimal and can be easily absorbed.

The lack of inclusive and fairly-priced sizes in mainstream brands is certainly an accountability issue that’s slowly being addressed by some big names in the industry. But even when brands want to take a step in the right direction, our culture is so fatphobic it’s impossible to stay out of controversy.

Back in 2019, when Nike introduced a line of plus-size mannequins in its London flagship store, Telegraph journalist Tanya Gold wrote an opinion piece filled with contempt for the fat women the clothes were designed for. But how could you possibly start exercising without the appropriate clothing – as if the mere servicing of a customer base in need of your product represents a moral failing?

Marion says movement is “an integral part” of her life balance. But fronting the extra money and time it takes to get comfortable workout clothes presents a real challenge for her – especially since she lives on a low income. That’s not uncommon, either: Multiple studies have shown fat people earn less and have a harder time finding work than thin people, and that women are even more affected.

These days, Marion regularly practises yoga and swims. She enjoys walking outdoors, dancing and she’s part of a French governmental programme called “health basketball”, a modified version of the sport with no jumping or contact, with different levels of difficulties based on individual mobility. The programme can be prescribed by GPs to treat chronic conditions, and reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease and certain types of cancer.

“Knowing I’ll enjoy the activity is a huge motivator for me to do it regularly,” Marion says. That’s true for everyone, of course – you need to be consistent to obtain the health benefits of exercise, and staying motivated is always the hardest part. But for fat people, countless obstacles can make that motivation even more elusive.

For instance, there aren’t many clubs suitable for fat people. “I’m lucky I found a great health basketball club, but I have to go 80 km each week to get there,” Marion says. Even at that gym, though, she’s run into a host of issues when she tried exercising on her own. 

“Honestly, the list is just too long,” Marion continues. “Bodybuilding machines can’t fit my belly and my legs; my arms bump against the treadmill railings; the turnstiles at the entry hurt me; the pool ladders are too narrow and not supportive of my weight. I can’t always sit down to put my shoes on or take them off; the changing rooms are too cramped; there are some walking paths I can’t take; I still haven’t found an affordable bike that can support my weight; and no sports salesperson has ever known how to advise me.”

Fighting for inclusivity in sports is the main motivator for Paris-based yoga instructor Alice Clerc. Since 2021, she’s been teaching at Yogras (a pun mixing “yoga” and the French word for fat), an online yoga class launched by fat-rights NGO, Gras Politique (Political Fat). “It’s something I’ve been wanting to do ever since I began training, and something I specifically studied for later on,” she says. 

Clerc remembers a discussion she had with one of her former teachers about the importance of adapting yoga classes to fat bodies. Her teacher said she had modified her courses in the past, using prenatal yoga as a base. “The problem is, being fat is very different from being pregnant!” Clerc says. “When you’re pregnant, you’re worried about putting weight on your belly, whereas a larger person just wants to work out in a more accessible way.”

Clerc generally prepares about 20 classes per week, adapting her flows to all kinds of mobility requirements. “For Yogras, I think about all options – for example, people who can’t support themselves on their wrists, or at least can’t stay on them for too long,” she says.

“I always ask at the beginning of a class if anyone has limitations, and I’ve gotten in the habit of figuring out modifications,” she continues. “It’s about establishing a safe space to do yoga – you have to remind yourself that the class can be hard for some people, but in no way does that equal failure.” In other words, her approach is the polar opposite of the degrading gym classes of our childhoods.

Clerc says she’s frustrated at the pace of change in the yoga world, but she’s inspired by the work of fellow teachers and yoga schools, too. It all comes down to centring the pleasure of the practice, rather than focusing on weight goals or bending over backwards to fit into a class that’s not right for your body. Here’s to hoping that this approach to yoga – or exercise in general – will soon become mainstream.

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n7ejj8Lucie InlandGen UedaSportsFitnessyogaFatPlus SizeVICE BelgiumVICE InternationalfatphobiaFat Shaminggymexercise
<![CDATA[Behind the Scenes at the Red Carpet Premiere of ‘100 Days to Indy’]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/epvnen/100-days-to-indy-premiere-photosTue, 25 Apr 2023 15:55:04 GMTIf you're a speed freak with a taste for adrenaline, you've probably heard of the Indy 500 - the legendary Indianapolis Motor Speedway race in Indiana, USA. It's one of the fastest and most prestigious races in the world, with some of the most talented drivers in open-wheel racing reaching tyre-burning speeds of 230 miles per hour.

A man takes a photo of an IndyCar vehicle; a man in an IndyCar-themed shirt.

But the Indy 500 isn't just a race – it's a major event. Hundreds of thousands of people show up to watch the action live, and the pre-race festivities are a blast. There's a parade, lots of day drinking, and, of course, the Snake Pit - a music festival described as “hell on earth” by Deadspin. And then there are the traditions – like the winner drinking milk in Victory Lane. Yeah, we don't get it either, but it's a thing.

A man in a vintage IndyCar leather jacket and fans on the red carpet.
Fans on the red carpet.

This year, VICE has got the inside track with our new docuseries, 100 Days to Indy. Our talented team, led by Emmy Award-winning director Patrick Dimon, went behind the scenes to get an inside look at the fascinating world of IndyCar racing.

At our LA premiere, we welcomed IndyCar Series champions Will Power, Josef Newgarden, and Scott McLaughlin of Team Penske; Simon Pagenaud of Meyer Shank Racing, and Marcus Ericson of Chip Ganassi Racing – the Indy 500 winners of 2019 and 2022, respectively.

4_24_2023_JAMIE_LEE_TAETE_INDY500_DIPTYCH copy 2.jpg
Indy 500 champion Simon Pagenaud on the red carpet; IndyCar fans waving.

Dimon said of the quick six-week turnaround in filming: “I think that sometimes the beauty is not having too much time… This is like: ‘Hey, this is what happened in St. Petersburg. This is who we've filmed with so far. This is what we have to show and tell, so there's no getting around it.’”

100 Days to Indy panel at red carpet premiere in California
The "100 Days to Indy" panel at the premiere.

Pato O’Ward, driver of the No. 5 Arrow McLaren Chevrolet and championship leader through two rounds, praised this authentic approach: “They showed everything as what it is. Nothing on there is fake. It's legit and raw.”

Check out the scenes of the fans and the stars on the red carpet.

Front row guests at the 100 Days to Indy premiere; fans hanging around outside the venue

100 Days to Indy will be available to stream on Thursday 27 April from 9-10PM ET/PT on The CW Network.

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epvnenLucy SarretZing TsjengJamie Lee TaeteSportscar racingIndyCarSportmotorsportsPhotosDocumentaryTV
<![CDATA[Crypto Bros Bought an English Football Team. It Isn't Going Well.]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/qjkgqm/crypto-bros-bought-crawley-town-fc-wagmi-outFri, 03 Mar 2023 08:45:00 GMTThe small town of Crawley in West Sussex isn’t synonymous with football in the same way Manchester or Barcelona are. It was the childhood home of England manager Gareth Southgate who played alongside 2005 X Factor winner Chico at school, but beyond that Crawley isn’t known worldwide for its footballing pedigree.

Full disclosure: I grew up there. My PE teacher, Mr Bagnall, even used to play for Crawley Town FC. But I was never a fan – the only time I watched them play, they conceded four goals in 22 minutes.

In April 2022, Crawley Town caught my eye again when they were bought by WAGMI United after failing to acquire Bradford City – WAGMI stands for “We’re All Gonna Make It”, a popular slogan in crypto circles. They’re a consortium of American businesspeople and web3 investors with no prior experience in football, including influencer Gary Vaynerchuk and Daryl Morey the president of the Philadelphia 76ers.

WAGMI purchased Crawley around the same time the NFT market began plummeting and crypto investors turned to real-world assets for stability. “We were trying to use all the hype from the NFT boom. These online communities were forming and people were gathering and we're like, what if we bought these people a professional sports team?” explains Preston Johnson, WAGMI co-owner and former ESPN gambling analyst, from his home in America. “There were a lot of projects and companies that were coming out built on hype and essentially, that's all it was. It was empty promises and hype.”

Johnson tells VICE they wanted to give the crypto community something tangible “that people can gather around every Saturday and root for”. They arrived with big promises; pledging to make Crawley the “internet’s football team”, give fans a meaningful voice, reinvent the broken way sports clubs are managed, and boldly, take League Two Crawley all the way to the Premier League.

“How?” you might ask. Have they discovered one weird trick the FA hate? Well, no. As it turns out, running a football club is harder than they thought. American crypto bros parachuting into a League Two club and taking them to the Premier League has gone as well as you would expect. Nine months, four managers and half the season in and Crawley sit near the bottom of the table, battling relegation.

Crawley Town owner and WAGMI United founder Preston Johnson (left), watching a match
Crawley Town owner and WAGMI United founder Preston Johnson (left), watching a match. Photo: Simon Dack / Telephoto Images / Alamy Stock Photo

Two weeks after the takeover, manager John Yems was suspended for racial abuse, which Johnson seems to blame all his current woes on. But this was followed by a litany of unforced errors that paint a picture of overconfident Americans biting off more than they can chew. Whether it be selling their star striker to a relegation rival or accidentally transfer listing the whole squad, League Two fans have been watching this saga unfold, thanking their lucky stars WAGMI didn’t buy their club.

WAGMI’s big idea is minting NFTs to democratise the club to bring in money. They say they’ve sold 10,200 of these NFTs, raising around $5m. Holders receive a customisable image of the red devil mascot, an exclusive all-black kit and voting rights alongside season ticket holders. In their first and only vote, fans were given the chance to decide which position they should sign next and opted for a midfielder.

This apparently, is the future of football. WAGMI are adamant blockchain technology will revolutionise the world and believe they’re pioneers in this respect. “I think in five to ten years most industries will be using NFTS via blockchain first in some form or fashion,  just because it's more efficient,” predicts Johnson.

Lecturers at City, University of London Dr Andrea Baronchelli and Dr Francesc Rodriguez Tous warn that relying on NFTs to boost revenue could put Crawley’s finances at risk: “The danger […] is there’s no guarantee of long-run sustainability in raising funds, and if the project does eventually collapse or slow down they would have little else in the way of raising capital.”

WAGMI are reinventing the wheel when it comes to democratising football, too. League One Exeter City have a supporters’ trust which bought around 54 percent percent of the club in 2003 and have voting parity with the club’s Board of Directors (Jeremy Corbyn proposed a similar idea in the 2019 general election). In Germany, clubs are required to have 51 percent of the club owned by fans, something over 60 MPs called for in England last year. Supporters may not be able to vote on which player to sign next, but they do have power over their club without needing to buy NFTs.

WAGMI have been so focused on disrupting football, they’ve gradually alienated local fans with decisions, including sidelining favorites like goalkeeper Glenn Morris and hiring Arsenal Under-23s manager Kevin Betsy, who managed one win in 12 league games before getting sacked.

Other ideas have been branded disrespectful. Last October, ahead of two important cup games, manager-less and struggling in the league, the owners flew into the UK. Instead of going to watch Crawley, WAGMI scouted the Sidemen playing in a charity match the YouTubers had organised. The YouTubers were then invited to train with the squad and if they did well, play in the upcoming FA Cup match. One of the Sidemen, Simon Minter, later revealed they were actually told they could play in the game if they wanted but declined, knowing how they would feel if their club did the same.

Preston explains this was a publicity stunt to “supplant ourselves as unique and different and non-traditional”, but fans were less than impressed. The FA Cup is the oldest football competition in the world and one in which Crawley has a proud history in. “Well, let me tell you, it kicked off. It was like they were totally blind to what was going on,” says Nathan, a lifelong fan in his twenties. He is speaking anonymously as he is worried about being banned from matches by WAGMI. “It's disrespectful to the players. It ruins the integrity of the Cup because then anyone can rock up and play.”

From then the situation spiraled. In November, interim manager Lewis Young left after eight years of service when he was told wouldn’t be offered the job permanently. Their next manager then resigned before a game against Stevenage after 34 days in charge. Having been knocked out of the FA and League Cups, managerless again and staring at relegation, by the end of December fans were angry.

As if waving a red rag to a bull, Johnson flew in for the Stevenage game and joined coaching staff in the dugout to show his support. Fans had been asking for meetings with the owners for weeks and here was one sitting right in front of them.

Johnson says this is one decision he doesn’t regret but supporters were seething; the one time he stepped off the bench he was greeted with angry jeers of “Sit down, shut up”. Later the Guardian reported he had to ask an official how substitutions work – something Preston denies. “He just looked like an absolute wally,” recalls Nathan.

Despite saying he understands fans’ frustrations – some WAGMI owners have received death threats – Johnson sees a funny side to it. “The day after the Stevenage game the World Darts Championship was on TV and someone was caught holding a ‘WAGMI out’ sign. Like at the Darts Championship, that's hilarious. I think that's so funny.”

Supporters of lower league teams aren’t in it for the glory that comes with being a Premier League fan. They’re there because they love their local club. In the i, Daniel Storey previously wrote of his apprehension at his beloved Bradford City might be “used like a petri dish, a real-life version of Football Manager that you can quit without saving” by WAGMI. Unfortunately, his worst fears have come true for Crawley fans.

In 2021 actors Ryan Reynolds and Rob McElhenney purchased Wrexham FC, who currently sit in the league below Crawley. Nathan thinks WAGMI should take a leaf out of their book. “The fans were very sceptical but they sat down with them and won them over.”

“There’s a tone-deaf arrogance … so many lies and empty promises,” he says. “If you're gonna try and repair any sort of relationship you need to start doing it now because it's getting ugly very quickly. The WAGMI Out group is growing by the day.” Popular podcast Football Ramble were more forward with their advice. These crypto bros, its hosts said, should realise “there is just one option, and that is to fuck off”.

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qjkgqmZac LarkhamZing TsjengFootballSportCrawley Sportscryptocurrencycryptoweb3nfts
<![CDATA[Photos of the Fight Club for Dutch Teens]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/epz8kn/photos-dutch-fight-club-hood-fights-tielWed, 22 Feb 2023 08:45:00 GMTA version of this article originally appeared on VICE Belgium.

Brussels-based photographer Victor Blanchevoye, 23, is a fan of combat sports. After digging around on social media, he found Hood Fights Tiel, a fight club based in the town of Tiel in the east of the Netherlands. The premise of the club is simple: Whoever is interested can meet up in the middle of nowhere and fight someone.

During a fight, people stand around in a circle surrounding the two opponents and a referee. There are no special rules, but the idea is to keep things civilised. The matches are also recorded on video and uploaded to the club’s YouTube channel with running commentary in the background. People in the audience are allowed to take pictures and videos, too.

Blanchevoye has been to about 15 of these fights. At first, he was a little hesitant because he didn’t know what kind of characters he would meet. “In this world, there are a lot of neo-Nazis,” Blanchevoye says. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case at all. “Participants come from everywhere and they’re often representing their country of origin or their community,” he continues. “There's a little bit of an Olympic feel to it.”

Hoodfights Tiel – group of young men standing in a circle in the middle of a field
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye

Overall, he said the sparring is pretty light-hearted and is considered sort of like training. “One day, the cops came just to see that everything was OK, and I was surprised to find they had no problem with it,” Blanchevoye says. “The only issue to me is that the organisers should be more careful about falls. And it’d be good to have people on hand to carry fighters if there are injuries.”

Surprisingly, most of the fighters are super young – generally around the age of 17. “The one who inspires me the most is Amidou,” Blanchevoye says. At 17, Amidou (who didn’t want to share his last name for privacy reasons) is the champion of the group. “Beyond being super strong, I just find him moving. He always turns up surrounded by his whole gang.”

Scroll down to see more photos of Hood Fights Tiel:

Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – group of young men celebrating and group hugging after a win.
Amidou, in the centre, is being celebrated by his fellow fighters. Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – young shirtless man holding his opponent in a headlock on the ground. The grass is wet and sprinkled with dead leaves. It's dark.
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – zoomed-out shot of group of men standing around in a big field in the winter.
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – two young men crouching to coach to a fighter sho is sitting on the ground barefoot looking tired.
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – young man caught mid-punch. He just delivered a hook and his adversary is flying through the air.
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – close-up of a young man's face all bloody, sweaty and bruised.
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – young man sitting on the grass with his back to the camera. Someone's hand is pouring water on the back of his neck from a tetra pack container.
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – young fighter speaking into a microphone as someone else records him. They are in a field in front of a river and it's winter.
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – teenager picture from the back wearing a morocco jersey, boxing gloves and black pants. He is resting his hands on his hips.
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – two young men wrestling on the ground as a referee taps them on their shoulders. They are covered in mud because the ground is wet.
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – two teenagers wrestling on the wet grass with a referee about to intervene.
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – A young man holding a fighter by the wrist in a dark field, probably about to announce his victory
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – two teens about to hug
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – close up of two teenagers wrestling on the wet grass
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – Group of three men standing around in a big field with cars parked in the background
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – close-up of three young men, two of them are pictured from the back. The guy on the left is helping the one in the middle have a drink.
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
Victor Blanchevoye, Hoodfights Tiel – young men wearing a big leather coat lined with fur, a green sweater and sunglasses, snacking on some chips.
Photo: Victor Blanchevoye
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epz8knMarie PiletteGen UedaPhotographyfightsMMAboxingVICE InternationalVICE BelgiumSports
<![CDATA[The Underground Fight Club Racking Up Millions of YouTube Views]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/pkg99v/king-of-the-ring-underground-fight-clubWed, 11 Jan 2023 08:45:00 GMTIn a disused commercial unit – dwarfed by the 100ft red brick arches of Stockport Viaduct – and gleaming pale under the glare of a patchwork of fluorescent ceiling lamps, two lads are knocking lumps off each other.

Pressed in against the ropes of a makeshift boxing ring, a small crowd – a mix of gawps and grimaces – gazes on intently. Aside from the fighters, the only other person in the ring is Remdizz: today’s charismatic host, referee, and the self-described “hood’s Dana White”.

This is King of the Ring, a clandestine fight club that pops up monthly in rotating locations around Manchester, postcodes sent out by text a few days before the starting bell sounds.

With the last of the Sunday afternoon sun headed for the horizon, a steady trickle of spectators wound its way up this former boxing gym’s dusty stairs. Insulation panels pulled from the ceiling sit in piles next to old trophies and punched-out gloves. A burly doorman checks names, ticking off family, friends and curious onlookers with tickets. Despite the damp November chill, there’s a warm, anticipatory atmosphere in the building as tracks by local rappers eke out of a makeshift PA system and punters swig from Stella cans.

King of the Ring, Manchester: A young man in gloves hits punching bag

Nervy fighters – who put themselves forward via social media, before signing waivers and being matched by age, size, and experience – pace about, sweating under hoodies with drawstrings pulled tight as they hit heavy bags suspended from tomato-red scaffolds. The crowd, ranging in age from schoolkids to seniors but mostly populated by young men in a uniform of skin fades and tight tracksuits, slowly swells, claiming vantage points around the squared circle.

Today, there’ll be six bouts. Each contest comprises three one-minute rounds that disappear in a blur of arms and sweat, the thud and slap of leather on skin sending shouts from the crowd and pointed instructions from the fighters’ corners.

King of the Ring, Manchester: An opponent in gloves waits his turn in front of audience

Remdizz – who only wanted to go by his nickname – twirls and waltzes and slides between the competitors, adjudicating, and then, when it’s all done, declaring a win, loss or draw. King Of The Ring, or KOTR, is his brainchild.

It began life in 2021, in a back garden with a ring consisting of foam-wrapped fence posts and a few strips of construction tape. Hampered by injuries over a three-year Muay Thai career, Remdizz had set out with a vision of building his own grassroots promotion that could surface new talent and, eventually, provide an income not just for himself but for others supplying food and drinks and dressing the fighters. (Today, there’s chicken, rice and peas, and mac and cheese laid on by a friend of his mum, and drinks dished out from cardboard boxes.)

In the 12 months since that first back garden scrap, KOTR has popped up in a pub, a car park and hosted match-ups in Birmingham and Amsterdam. Remdizz, still in his early twenties, wants to make today’s location a more permanent HQ, providing training facilities across a range of fighting disciplines. An instinctive entrepreneur, his vision is constantly expanding – but the guiding philosophy of KOTR is the one stamped in capital letters on the banner behind him, on the back of his T-shirt, and on the ring’s fastenings: “PUT DOWN THE KNIFE, USE YOUR LEFT AND RIGHT”.

King of the Ring, Manchester: Audience members look on as two opponents fight

By containing violence in controlled spaces, Remdizz believes he can offer a counter to the tide of serious youth violence that’s risen in his city by 200 percent over the past two years. “If you’ve got a problem with someone and it’s probably going to go to that point,” he says, “then bring it in here, squash it, go home. Everyone gets to live.” Previous events have included moments of silence for victims of knife crime, and fighters boxing in shirts printed with photos of friends who’ve passed.

“A lot of the fighters, as much as they might not be in a gang, they might be around gang people,” Remdizz explains once the fights are over. “They don’t want to be going on that path, but that’s the only path in front of them. They feel like this is the safe place where you can see fights and nothing dodgy’s going to happen after.”

He says he’s interested in the stories of the people arriving in his Instagram DMs. “We’ve had people who’ve been stabbed come and fight before, who’re coming from gang life, people who’ve come from hooligan backgrounds. And it’s never kicked off.”

A handful of neighbours at the backyard fights have complained about cars blocking the street when there’s an event on, but Remdizz says that’s the closest to trouble KOTR has ever come. Police and local authorities, he says, have been supportive once he explains what he’s trying to do. (Greater Manchester Police did not offer any comment when contacted by VICE.)

King of the Ring, Manchester: Wide-angle shot of a fight surrounded by audience

Remdizz sees his promotion as plugging a gap left by government cuts. Youth service provision has plunged in the past decade, with per-child funding in Manchester among the lowest in the country at just £8.38 (the nationwide country average is £37 – in 2010, it was £158). KOTR’s chosen locations have a few things in common: mostly backyards, different each time, and in areas around Manchester with historically low levels of opportunity for young people. They also – somewhat crucially for the growth of the brand – need to look good on camera.

Elbowing out the crowd pressed around the ring at each event is a gaggle of photographers and videographers, each craning for their shot. This is a critical element of KOTR, providing content for its growing online footprint.

All the action is filmed and posted on YouTube, where opaque algorithms push fight videos to fans of professional promotions like the UFC, DAZN, Bellator, and ONE — all of which have spent recent years building audiences in the hundreds of millions on the site.

Highlights are clipped up for TikTok and Instagram. The videos are brutal. Titles advertise knockouts and slugfests in capital letters; thumbnails are a collage of bloody noses and fists colliding with faces. The KOTR YouTube channel, which has clocked up over 10 million views in its first year, is one among many mean-mugging amateur broadcasts that feature unvarnished violence and basic setups, the most scabrous of which are based in Russia and Eastern Europe and take pride in a no limits approach to violence.

King of the Ring, Manchester: Onlookers lean on the boxing ropes

In the case of KOTR, the distance between the atmosphere on the day and the image presented online is vast. But being at the mercy of YouTube’s algorithm means you have to play to the extremes, and KOTR’s videos attract viewers – and competitors.

Some fighters are returning characters, while others, like Ryan Simpson – who’s travelled over from the Wirral with a couple of mates, all of them having a go in the ring – say they got off the couch last week and decided they wanted a scrap. “To get the steam off,” says Ryan.

Some fighters have nicknames, like Mighty Mouse, Dennis the Menace, and Blueface. Demornia Cantrill, 26, goes by Warlord. He previously competed in mixed martial arts, chalking a record of four wins and two losses on the regional scene. But then, he says, “life got in the way”. Having grown up in care, removed from a violent household, he pursued a career in the army; but after his brother was imprisoned for murder, Demornia returned home and worked in a school as a special needs assistant.

Serving a prison stint for domestic assault forced a life change: “Getting back to Plan A”, he says. At KOTR, he’s found a community, an outlet for his aggression, a platform from which he hopes to be scouted, and a message he can get behind.

“This is where it’s very close to me,” he says. “I’ve had friends who’ve died through knife crime, and my brother went to jail for, unfortunately, taking someone else’s life. I just want to help as many kids as possible.”

King of the Ring, Manchester: A young man hits a punching bag; a mirror reflects the inside of a boxing gym

Boxing gyms have long steered young men off troubled paths. But now YouTube is catapulting that work – often a distorted view of it – onto a global platform. Is there a risk associated with untethering this violence from the controlled confines of the ring? Settling scores toe-to-toe in the arena is nice in practice, but what happens when fragile egos collide with an online comment section after a loss?

Remdizz is understanding. “There will be people who’ll be affected by a loss,” he says, “but they’ve come in, they’ve signed the waiver, and they understand what the Ts and Cs are: It’s going to go on the YouTube and it’s going to be seen by quite a lot of people. They know what they’ve got themselves into. And,” he adds, with a knowing smile, “the big thing I always tell them: Do not bother with the comments.”

These fighters come seeking release, and taking a punch becomes as much about finding respect for their opponent as it is seeking pride in themselves. “Win, lose, or draw, it doesn’t matter,” says Warlord. “As long as you go in there and make yourself proud.” Every bout on this Sunday ends in an embrace between the fighters, and the descent of a unique sense of calm over the competitors.

After getting his hand raised in victory, and with the fizz of adrenaline wearing off, Warlord comes over to explain why he keeps coming back to King Of The Ring. “The government ain’t doing nothing, nobody else is doing anything,” he says, his breathing slowing to a steady clip, “so if this can help, if it saves one life, then at least we did something.”

King of the Ring, Manchester: A fighter celebrates a win

@wf_pritchard / @christopherbethell

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pkg99vWill PritchardZing TsjengChris BethellSportSportsboxingMANCHESTERyouth violencefightingFIGHT CLUB
<![CDATA[Forget the World Cup: The Darts Are the Ultimate Sporting Event]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/v7vk33/worldMon, 02 Jan 2023 09:00:00 GMTThere is a moment, when I am in the stands at London’s Alexandra Palace, as a soup of horses, jockeys, Marios, Luigis, Christmas puddings, Santas, 118 guys, chickens, Greggs sausage rolls, nuns, Teletubbies, Beatles and at least three lads dressed as David Seaman roils beneath me, that I begin to understand in my bones the phenomenon known as “great darts”.

I am watching a second round World Darts Championships match, and the current number one darts pro in the world, Gerwyn “The Iceman” Price, is competing against the number 50 seed Luke Woodhouse. Price – a Welshman and former rugby player whose picture is there when you look up “brick shithouse” in the dictionary – has not done well so far, and the many English fans who enjoy performatively booing him like a panto villain have now started to chant “EN-GER-LAND”, growing hopeful for their countryman Woodhouse (vibe: guy who spends loads of money on the third shirts of Bundesliga teams because they’ve got a cool font on), as Price struggles to find a rhythm.

By the third leg of the match’s third set, however, Woodhouse panics. Clearly shaken by the enormity of what he could be about to achieve, he gets a bad case of the yips, unable to land his shots on target. Price catches onto his opponent’s weakness immediately, like a shark from the Valleys, and clinically claims the set. He wins the first leg of the next set, too, with a bullseye.

Fans seated on bleachers cheering on, there are men in dartboard headpieces sitting in the foreground.

His final move – his “to be or not to be” moment – is a majestic 150 checkout. As he lands it, Price lets out a victorious yowl, his signature move. The room erupts. It is an electric climax; so thrilling as to be almost operatic. “STAND UP IF YOU LOVE THE DARTS,” the crowd chants to the tune of “Go West” for the thousandth time tonight. I get to my feet, powerless to resist. I do love the darts – and this, without doubt, is absolutely great darts.

It’s important that you understand the agony, ecstasy and absurdity that I describe here, because though I think that the matches themselves are actually quite a small factor in what makes the annual World Darts Championships at Alexandra Palace such a unique proposition, they do provide context for everything else you see.

A man in a green Teletubby costume sits dejectedly while people cheer around him inside the darts venue.

Sport, like live music, is a conduit: for emotion, release, and in the case of the darts, for sinking pints and dressing in a frightening Shrek costume you got off Wish. These World Championships, while of course taken seriously by the pros (the winner gets £500,000), are a laugh precisely because of the knowing spectacle that gets made of a decidedly unspectacular sport. It is, fundamentally, hilarious for a guy who is about to stand in one spot and chuck arrows at a board to emerge onstage to “Ice Ice Baby” as he stalks the stage like a pro-wrestler, flanked by cheerleaders.

The players, organisers and crowd all know this, and it’s a big part of what makes the event so ripe for theatre. After all, without up-for-it competitors like Price and Steve Beaton (who wears the phrase “Bronzed Adonis” on the back of his shirt), you probably wouldn’t have the group of blokes sat behind me turning up as the Blue Man Group.

It’s as a result of this weird, funny, stupid and altogether unmatched atmosphere that for years now I’ve heard tell from various corners – mates from home, colleagues, friends of friends – of the notoriety of the darts as an excuse for a piss-up and some of the worst (ergo: best) fancy dress you’ve ever seen, with the World Championships at Ally Pally taking pride of place as the tour’s biggest event around Christmas and New Year.

A man standing straight in a seagull costume looks towards the camera.

What has always surprised me about these conversations, however, is the fact that they are pretty much always with people my own age. There’s definitely a perception of darts as a game that dads play in the pub, watching silently and seriously late at night, the commentary blaring out of the telly when everyone else is in bed – but the reality is that everyone I know who actually goes to watch live darts is in their 20s or 30s (most have got into it via clips shared on social media or put on at an afters). And when I get off the train at Alexandra Palace station at around 6:45PM on the evening of my visit, that’s precisely the demographic I meet.

The first thing I see is two guys in their 30s dressed as wizards. I consider taking a photo, until I am confronted with the second thing I see: another man of around the same age dressed as a hot dog. I follow the hot dog to the station exit, where he is greeted by around five other hot dogs, all doing ordinary things like looking on their phones or rounding up their mates. They don’t look either pleased with themselves or self-conscious – they’re just neutral, because this is the darts: fancy dress is just how it is.

A man in a hastily-made Blue Man Group costume with a spill on his shirt.

Once I make it inside, I head to the venue’s fan village – full of bars and food trucks, where one minute you’ll be ordering a tray of chips with curry sauce and the next you’re looking at twelve guys dressed as that picture of The Rock where he’s wearing a turtleneck and a silver chain – where I canvass some younger heads about their reasons for visiting. Michael, 19, is in aviator sunglasses and a nun’s habit, and says the words “piss-up” before I can even finish the question “what brings you to the darts?”

Michael’s friend Tommy, 19, tells me that he’s noticed that the crowd is “getting younger and younger.” He thinks there’s an element of the darts that is similar to uni culture (fancy dress; getting bladdered) which might explain its popularity among people in their 20s. “When you’re at uni, they do events like this. Students want to come to things like this,” he says.

Will, 18, James, 19, and their pals, are a similar age, and I initially approach them because their costumes are so impressive: they are dressed as the principal cast of The Wizard of Oz (Will’s the Wizard; James is putting in an absolute shift as the Wicked Witch of the West) – minus Dorothy, who is delayed at the bar.

A group of young boys dressed as the cast of Wizard of Oz with pitchers of beers in hand.

They’re down from Lincoln for the day, and Will, who became interested in darts via watching the World Championships on Sky at home, compares the experience to other sporting events: “It’s like a test match at the cricket, but more intense and shorter,” he says. James, by contrast, simply beams through his green face paint and says somewhat serenely: “Massive piss-up.”

Just as I’m trying to get to the bottom of exactly what, in the group’s opinion, it is about darts that is so great – and I truly could not have written this more sublimely – their Dorothy, Dylan, 18, shows up in a blue dress, Judy Garland wig and red trainers in place of ruby slippers, clutching a pitcher of beer. His mates gesture at him, the group’s resident darts savant, to answer me. He inhales solemnly and it feels like he is looking into my soul. “Come back at the end of the game,” he says, “once Price has hit a big fish. Then you’ll have your answer.” Dylan mate, if you are reading this: you were right.

Two men in beer maid outfits, one is pouring beer into the other's cup.

The main hall is brightly lit for TV broadcast, because the action is live on Sky Sports, and as a result it is absolutely boiling: my sympathies go out to everyone who selected “Grinch” as their costume. At front is the stage where the actual darts take place, with big screens on either side, for closeups of the board. Against all three other walls are the stands, lined with people who have come as, for example, the Slinky dog from Toy Story (interestingly, most of the costumes, like the aforementioned 118 advert fits, are strangely retro, tapping into a strain of 2000s and 2010s culture which actually feels quite alien now, though I suppose if this is an event where millennials are in the driving seat, nostalgia is to be expected because we are old), and in the middle are the tables, which are separated into three pens.

I take my seat in the stands on the left hand side, between a guy wearing a promotional Ladbrokes t-shirt that reads “I’M SEXY AND I THROW IT” over a full Spiderman costume, a couple of well-groomed Germans who’ve come on holiday, and, coincidentally, two people who are mates with someone I once dated (hello Georgia and Chris!), so chaos mode is activated before I even sit down.

On my left and right hand sides, the tables are reserved affairs, with drinks service and lots of men looking serious in polo shirts. In fact, the most important rivalry in the room is not between any players, but between the fans in the stands and those at these tables (the posher, pricier seats).

A crowd cheers on inside the large venue where the darts tournament is being played.

Popular chants from the stands include “Never seen a table down a pint,” and are intended to let the tables know just how shite their craic is. In a limp attempt at a comeback, one guy at a table holds up a sign on which he’s written: “Bet you wish you were at a table,” and the teenage girl sitting next to me, who is wearing a gold lamé jumpsuit – and whose mum gives me a sip from her pitcher of something called a Bullseye that is bright red and delicious – leans over and says, “Nah, we’re not boring fuckers like you.”

While this is all happening around the sides, however, it is the middle of the room that feels like its glowing nucleus: a whirling tornado of polyester costumes, chucked pints and matted Santa beards gone awry and trampled into the floor under hundreds of pairs of Stan Smiths. Frequently, this central contingent sets a new chant spiralling around everyone’s heads (including, for some reason, the Harry Maguire “His head’s fucking massive” one – wrong sport of course, but I’m always happy to hear it), and even in tense moments for the players, we’re STANDING UP IF WE LOVE THE DARTS approximately every five minutes: it’s the easiest chant in the world to get going, because well, everyone fucking loves the darts (or, at least, getting pissed at it).

An entire bleacher of darts fans stands up to cheer with their hands in the air.

I’m curious as to what the players think of the atmosphere. Do they find it distracting, or is it all part of the pageantry that professional darts involves? After the event, over email, Price (!) assures me of the latter. “For us players, it brings the best out of us. Once you’re on the stage you know you’ve got to bring your best game because it’s the World Championships,” he tells me. “I get a mixed reception from the fans sometimes and it’s not easy, but you want to put on a show. They buy their tickets months in advance and it’s a big occasion for them. It might be the only time they come and see the darts in a year. You want them to enjoy it.”

This is a sentiment that the punters share, though I’m told that if you’re there mainly for the night out, it’s best to come when the competition isn’t too far along. I meet Mark, 24, and his mates – all of whom are decked out as variations on Harry Potter. He explains: “It’s known for being a good time. If you come here early doors in the tournament, it’s just all about the piss-up.”

Ollie, 24, also Potter, tells me: “I think when people get busier at work, or with life commitments, they see each other less and less. So all of us getting together… we do this every year religiously.”

Left: a group of fans on a bleacher stand up to cheer. Right: A man in a ship captain outfit pours a beer into a cup.

While I don’t want to overegg the significance of the darts – in a lot of ways it’s very similar to any number of other sporting events, just with more people dressed as Scooby Doo characters – the main demographic I speak to are men in their 20s and 30s who are here for a festive get-together with uni or school friends that they might not have seen in a while. Darts are as good a reason as any to connect with people you love but haven’t seen in a while, and to have a laugh slagging off the tables while you do it.

As I leave the venue, after Price’s big comeback, there is a sense of conviviality that is definitely pissed up but still pretty pleasant. Banana costumes sag around waists and shoulders; a couple of shit mullet wigs litter the Ally Pally corridors. On the bus, people are singing “Gerwyn Price, Price, Price” (as in: “Feeling hot, hot, hot”), and even as far as Finsbury Park station, there’s a group of lads in Greggs’ Christmas jumpers waiting outside, arms around each other, their shouts of “180!” echoing behind me as I go down the escalator.

People are leaving the venue, two young men are screaming in the center.

My thoughts turn back to Mark, Ollie and their mates. At one point, Ollie said to me of his group’s annual darts pilgrimage, “We have a good time just before Christmas. It’s really important, especially for lads.” I remember that as he was telling me this, two of his friends were next to him, hugging. A crap Hogwarts fancy dress robe sleeve went dangerously close to dipping into a pint; the affection was palpable. Great darts indeed.

@hiyalauren / @ariamark

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v7vk33Lauren O'NeillDaisy JonesAria ShahrokhshahiSportsDartsthe darts!World Darts Championshipsporting eventdrinkingAlcoholScene ReportsTrip Report
<![CDATA[England Fans Looked Ecstatic After Latest World Cup Win]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/pkg4e8/fans-celebrating-england-advancing-to-world-cup-quarter-finals-photosMon, 05 Dec 2022 15:37:18 GMTIt all felt a bit more real for England fans gathering yesterday to watch the World Cup 2022 match against Senegal: now in the final 16, the team are edging ever-further in the tournament. Beer cans gripped a little tighter, kick offs a little more hushed. At Escape to Freight Island last night, a large outdoor venue in central Manchester, a huddled mass of flag-wearing Mancunions dared to hope for a quarter final– although fans had predicted a tough match.

The tension quickly turned to joy by the end of the first half. After a sluggish start, England stormed ahead once again, ending the match with a triumphant 3-nil victory against the African champions. The crowd erupted into red and white jubilation: flag-embossed Santa hats and football shirts were flung. Success was sweet. Caroline was, of course, sweeter.

The team appear to be in top form, and they will need it to tackle the reigning champions France in the quarter finals this Saturday. It is England’s first World Cup match against France in four decades. But as stakes continue to rise, a defeat will be harder to swallow. VICE photographer Chris Bethell was in Manchester to capture the excitement among fans.

England v Senegal World Cup match: England fans celebrating and waving flags
England v Senegal World Cup match: Two supporters hold hands
England v Senegal World Cup match: Supporters look tense watching on
England v Senegal World Cup match: Fans high five each other
England v Senegal World Cup match: Three supporters celebrate with pints
England v Senegal World Cup match: Crowd celebrates as England wins
England v Senegal World Cup match: Fans cheer as they watch match
England v Senegal World Cup match: Fan raises fists with players in background
England v Senegal World Cup match: Group shot of crowd watching match
England v Senegal World Cup match: Supporters dance in celebration
England v Senegal World Cup match: Man wearing 'Santa supports England' Santa hat
England v Senegal World Cup match: Crowd watch match
England v Senegal World Cup match: Crowd celebrates as England wins

@christopherbethell

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<![CDATA[The Football Fans Boycotting the Qatar World Cup 2022]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/5d34ek/fans-boycott-qatar-fifa-world-cup-2022Fri, 18 Nov 2022 09:00:00 GMTFor many football fans, Qatar 2022 feels like a tainted tournament. It’s been beset by controversy from the beginning: the bidding process which led to Russia and Qatar being awarded consecutive World Cups in 2010 was overshadowed by allegations of bribery, with FIFA, the game’s world governing body, engulfed in a maelstrom of corruption scandals and investigations in the aftermath (albeit not all directly connected to the bidding process).

In the time since, there has been intense scrutiny over Qatar’s human rights record. Human rights organisations have spent much of the last decade drawing attention to the treatment of the migrant workers labouring on the country’s World Cup infrastructure, much of which has had to be built from scratch at enormous financial, environmental and human cost. Same-sex relationships are also criminalised in Qatar, leaving many LGBTQ+ people anxious at the prospect of attending the tournament.

Football fans have long been asked to leave their ethics at the turnstile while watching the game, with sportswashing – the process of individuals, groups or states laundering their reputation through association with sport – more and more prevalent at both club and international level. Increasingly, though, it feels as if fans have had enough, with the repeated degradation of the game causing collective fatigue and anger.

In the build-up to Qatar 2022, there has been a groundswell of fans opting to boycott the tournament. Last year, a Norwegian grassroots campaign resulted in several of the countries’ biggest clubs openly calling for non-attendance. In Germany, fans across the Bundesliga have raised banners and displayed tifos advocating a boycott. Numerous local authorities across France, including in Paris, Marseille and Strasbourg, have refused to broadcast the tournament in public places or set up fan zones. Even some current and former players have said they will not be watching, including Eric Cantona and Lotte Wubben-Moy, a Euro 2022 winner with England.

Likewise, though not part of any formal campaign or movement, a growing number of fans have made a personal decision to switch off when the tournament begins. Here, in their own words, some of them explain their reasons. Some interviews have been conducted on a first-name only basis or under a pseudonym to protect their security. Answers have been edited for length and clarity.

‘How can that be a World Cup for all?’

I don’t like the way that FIFA are trying to put pressure on people to like this World Cup. Meanwhile, members of the UK government [notably Foreign Secretary James Cleverly] are telling gay fans to go to Qatar but behave differently. That, to me, sends completely the wrong message, because surely the World Cup should be about freedom of travel and freedom of expression. For members of our government to basically be telling LGBTQ+ people: “Go to the tournament, but you’re putting yourself at risk”… How can that be a World Cup for all?

To me, it’s sportswashing at its worst. The whole thing is about money and it’s creating a massive disconnect between fans and the sport. I’m not against taking the World Cup to new places: bringing the tournament to South Africa [in 2010] was a really good idea, same goes for Japan and South Korea [in 2002], but I don’t intend to watch a single game of this World Cup. — Mark Lawford, lecturer at the University Campus of Football Business

‘Even watching on television, you’d feel complicit’

For me, solidarity with migrant workers underpins everything. Right from the beginning [when corruption allegations first came to light], I remember thinking: ‘This just isn’t right.’ Gradually, more and more started to emerge about human rights abuses. Coincidentally, at the same time, there was an upsurge in Welsh football, we did well in the Euros and it was like: ‘Ah, I’m going to have to make a big decision here.’ It’s cruel, because watching the World Cup is wrapped up in your childhood and obviously Wales hadn’t qualified for the tournament for a long time [since 1958].

Then everything started coming out [about the treatment of migrant workers] and I just thought: ‘Wow’. There’s the LGBTQ+ discrimination as well, which really upset me. I thought: ‘How could we do that to people?’ Even watching on television, you’d feel complicit.

It’s going to be really weird not watching it. I’m the kind of person who’s happy to let people know how I feel about it, but there are a lot of Welsh fans who are really excited and you don’t want to browbeat people or say: ‘You’re a dickhead for watching this’. They’ve spent all their adult life waiting for it! You can only try to educate people, not hit them over the head with it. – Ap Daffyd, Wrexham and Wales fan

‘Ignorance is bliss – but now it’s difficult to deny’

I live in Oslo and here in Norway there was a big movement to boycott this World Cup. It’s easy to make the joke that Norway didn’t qualify and are therefore boycotting anyway, but the protests and complaints began before the national team’s failure to qualify. The pressure on the Norwegian Football Federation to boycott began mostly as a protest against sportswashing: Norwegian clubs, managed by their members AKA supporters, began to demand that clubs were not to travel to do winter training in sportswashing countries, and were not to be sponsored by companies from the same nations… The campaign then took on a ‘Boycott Qatar’ manifesto and more pressure was put on the NFF.

As an Arsenal fan – after 15 years of going to the Emirates and wearing club gear with Fly Emirates on the chest – I became aware of my club’s involvement [in promoting the UAE, which also has a poor human rights record]. Ignorance is bliss – but now it’s difficult to deny. – Christopher Hylland, Arsenal fan

Two men kiss next to a goal during a protest against the Qatar World Cup 2022 in front of the FIFA museum in Zurich
Two men kiss next to a goal during a protest against the Qatar World Cup 2022 in front of the FIFA museum in Zurich.

‘A lot of fans have just had enough’

Major sporting events have been awarded to countries with poor human rights records before, of course. But, in Qatar, the working conditions of the workers have been so thoroughly documented, and are in direct connection to the tournament, that it feels very tangible this time – more tangible than it has before.

I also think that a lot of fans have just had enough. Oppressive states buying some of the world’s biggest clubs, a myriad of issues surrounding Russia in 2018, UEFA putting showcase events in countries with oppressive regimes – at some point you have to take a stand about how you want your sport to be run.

A lot of friends I go to matches with won’t be watching. I’ve chatted about my stance with others but, for me, it’s a personal choice. After hearing the stories of workers, seeing the conditions they’re living and working in, knowing that some LGBTQ+ people don’t feel comfortable going – I’m just not interested in it. I thought this would be a difficult choice to make when the time came, but I really just have no interest in the tournament any longer. But I also think that it is unfair that football fans continue to have to make disorienting decisions like this, when they just want to watch their team play. – Curt Baker, SK Brann fan

‘I was brought up to respect people’

I was brought [up] to respect people no matter who they were and indeed where they came from. The stories that we have read about the treatment of migrant workers have been horrifying, as have some of the stories about how [the Qatari government] treat their own citizens. I simply will not support a country that does that and if that means missing six weeks of football, so be it. — Faith Fulcher, Liverpool fan

‘I can’t turn a blind eye to this’

When I started to read about labour practises in Qatar and how people had effectively been working under an indentured system, I started thinking: ‘I can’t turn a blind eye to this’. I have been a member of Amnesty for over a decade and so, to sit and watch a World Cup with the twin issues of what has happened with migrant workers and the treatment of LGBTQ+ people, I’d just be a complete hypocrite.

There are a lot of people – and I’m not judging them at all, because it’s not easy to ignore the World Cup if you’re a mad keen football fan – who recognise all the issues but are fine to sit and watch and carry on. Once it’s started, you can kind of adopt the approach of: ‘It’s too late to worry about it now as it’s started, so I’ll just go along with it and ignore it.’ Personally, that doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.

In football, money talks. I guess you could argue that it sold its soul so long ago in different ways, with dodgy owners of football clubs and so on.

Even so, if you get a World Cup that’s been awarded the way this one has and then you add onto that the nature of the exploitation going on, that’s something else. To get to the stage where it seems to be a case of: ‘Everyone has complained, but the stadiums are up now and it’s starting any minute so we’ll just have to accept it now’… that just doesn’t make sense. – Nathan, Fulham fan

@W_F_Magee

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5d34ekWill MageeZing Tsjeng2022 World Cupqatar world cupWorld Cup 2022FootballSportsSport
<![CDATA[Inside the Wild Life of Footballers’ Luxury Assistants]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/93ad5d/wild-life-footballers-luxury-assistantsTue, 15 Nov 2022 08:45:00 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE France.

First division football players live extravagant lives. With some elite footballers commanding salaries of tens of millions of euros, it’s no wonder many of them indulge in the finer things in life. But obtaining the best of the best can be work, too. That’s why they often hire luxury lifestyle management services, companies devoted to pampering them and assisting them in whatever they may need – like organising their holidays, for instance. 

“If it’s family time they’re after, we usually send them to an island,” says Jérémy Vosse, head of Premium Conciergerie, one of the most renowned agencies in this field. “For trips with buddies, we’re likely to suggest a hotel in Dubai or Los Angeles, or a villa in Miami.” Like influencers, footballers are especially fond of Dubai – an “obvious” spot to warm up in the winter, he adds.

To obtain these exclusive services, you first have to join the Premium FC club – a special membership at Premium Conciergerie – for about €4,800 a year. In exchange for this membership, Vosse guarantees your requests will be handled within five minutes.

The agency doesn’t just cater to footballers – it also has celebrities, business titans and other stupendously wealthy people among its clients. Vosse says most vacations tend to cost between €50,000 and €500,000. Whatever the price, the agency always pays for everything up front and then asks to be reimbursed. “Even a very expensive watch, we’ll pay for it ourselves,” he says. “The bar is very high – there’s almost nothing we’ll refuse, except maybe if a client wants an advance on a real estate property.” 

“Football players are teenagers with an unlimited budget,” explains Mickael Daya, founder of Élysée Conciergerie, an agency with deep-pocketed clients both inside and outside the football world. “One client ordered ten Playstation 5s when it came out — even though he had only six TVs at his house!” he says. “I asked if he was planning to give the others away, and he said, ‘No, it’s to have one on each TV and a few on display on the wall.’” When Daya suggested he just buy fakes for the display, his client said no – this way, if the main ones broke, he’d have spares.

But Daya also adds that footballers “tend to be more fearful, in our experience”, when compared to other clients. “Some are coming off bad experiences with other concierge services that scammed them when they were younger.” Not long ago, for instance, a player from a big European club told Daya he’d rented a vacation home he’d previously booked, except this time, the price had doubled. “The concierge service he was using was pocketing the difference,” Daya says. 

One thing footballers ask for all the time is food delivery. “It might seem odd, but it actually kind of makes sense – it’s not like you can order caviar on Deliveroo,” Daya laughs. One time, a footballer asked him to get two kilos of caviar and a private chef to make him mini-burgers while he was on the couch with his buddies.

The main challenge of the job? Putting together a network that can grant these types of requests in minutes. Responding to footballers’ demands can be a race against time. Once, Premium Conciergerie was asked to organise a whole wedding in just nine business days. “I had five people working round the clock every day,” Vosse says. But, in the end, “the client was super happy. It was very emotional and just magic!” 

Or take this example: Daya from Elysée Conciergerie once received a call from a footballer about a white party he wanted to attend. The problem? His Ferrari was blue, and he wanted Daya to find a way to turn it white. Within 96 hours. A paint job like this takes at least 72 hours – plus, you need to find a garage with the the right experience and insurance to handle the car. 

But, of course, when money is no object, solutions are easier to come by. “He went off to the party happy,” Daya recalls. “The next day, he called to tell me how amazing it was – but that now, we needed to take the white paint off.”

“Sometimes, the players are a little too good at kicking back,” says Philippe-Alexandre Alain of Elite Career Lifestyle. “For some of them, vacation means Ibiza, hookah, booze and neverending parties” – though he admits that’s not the case for everyone in the industry. Most of his clients actually don’t go for that kind of excess and take good care of their work instruments (read: their bodies). 

Vosse agrees, saying that his football clients are mostly serious guys. “We often send their coaches on vacation with them – that way, they can mix business and pleasure,” he explains. “In the morning, they train; in the afternoon, they have fun.” 

You might think of football players as 24-hour party people, but their profession actually demands a relatively healthy and disciplined life in between training, resting, dietary restrictions, sponsors’ obligations and media requests. “Most people don’t understand the sacrifices it takes to be them,” Vosse says. “Most of the time, they live like monks: super focused on their job and trying to do it well.”

Researcher Frédéric Rasera, who specialises in football sociology, was also quick to push back against the stereotype of the dumb football player blowing through money. Not all professional footballers are multimillionaires, he points out: “Honestly, this kind of luxury vacation is only for a small minority.” In fact, the sports publication L’Équipe estimated this year that the median gross monthly salary in France’s main league was about €40,000 – meaning that half of the players made less than that, and the other half more.

Besides, most footballers know they need to be smart with the money they’ll make in their short careers. “Just because they spend a lot on parties or vacations, doesn’t mean they don’t also make worthwhile investments,” Rasera says. “They have financial advisors to help them do that.” 

He also adds that many professionals in the field come from working-class backgrounds: “It’s extra important to them to be able to enjoy things, since in the past they’ve had to tighten their belts.”

A player’s humble origins often show up in their more extravagant requests. Alain once had to bend over backwards to find a way to get a dozen Big Macs and McNuggets delivered on an aeroplane. “A private jet and McDonalds – that’s not a pairing that works for most people,” Rasera comments.

Food isn’t the only fun thing players are interested in, of course. “We get some requests that would be immoral in the players’ home countries, even illegal – and, of course, we can’t grant those,” says one concierge who preferred to remain anonymous. “But there’s no rule against connecting people with a phone number.” 

Some destinations, like Dubai, are particularly famous for their high-end escorting services. “The problem in Dubai is, the girls just aren’t discreet. It’s super easy for the footballers to find them,” the source continues. “As soon as they walk into an upscale bar, out come the girls to offer a massage. And they brag about it way too much afterwards. Plus, the prices are crazy over there.” 

Another anonymous concierge says that he regularly receives these same kinds of requests – and that they often come from the players’ entourage. “Sometimes, you see a player’s brother leading more of a debauched ‘footballer lifestyle’, when the player himself is a pretty strict athlete,” they told VICE. 

As for Vosse, any request is more than welcome, but he really draws the line at anything illegal. “I’ll give them two warnings. After that, I’ll stop working with them.”

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<![CDATA[‘It’s Very Freeing’: The Queer History of Roller Skating]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/z344d8/queer-history-of-roller-skatingTue, 08 Nov 2022 09:00:00 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE Netherlands. ‘It’s Very Freeing’

Roller skating has going through something of a renaissance ever since the start of the pandemic. Back in the days of bread-making and home workouts, people got into the sport as a way to exercise and snatch a breath of fresh air. In the past couple of years, new roller skating clubs have popped up in cities all over the world, many of them are queer and inclusive. 

There’s the Los Angeles-based Queer Skate Alliance and We Got This and Queer Skate LDN in London; Toronto has the Queer Quads; Berlin the Jam Skate Club; and Amsterdam’s skaters have jumped on the bandwagon, too, with the Queer Skate Club

I spoke with Job Bulder, owner of THE Derby Shop, a roller skating shop in Amsterdam. She confirms that she’s also seen more and more people interested in roller skating since the pandemic, and queer people in particular. “The roller skating community is generally very open,” Bulder explains. “I think that makes queer people feel more comfortable than in heteronormative sports.”

Queer Skate Club, Amsterdam – woman wearing roller skates, knee and elbow pads, hugging another woman who's sitting in her lap and next to a bike. background: another woman with red hair skating, a group of people, a river and Amsterdam central station on the other side.

I decided to hang out with the Queer Skate Club, which has been meeting in front of the EYE Film Museum in Amsterdam every Sunday since April 2021. Lin Visser, one of the founders, bought their first pair of skates three years ago for a roller derby, a contact sport where two teams of skaters face off and shove each other for points.

“I was attracted to roller derby because you can move freely in a super inclusive and non-judgemental environment,” Visser says. “You never feel uncomfortable about your body or what you’re capable of.”

Unfortunately, the pandemic tossed a wrench into Visser’s derby roll. “So a friend and I went roller skating together outside, and thought, ‘How fun would it be if we could teach tricks to other skaters’,” they remember. “I also missed having a place where I could recognise myself in others, because there aren’t that many queer spaces in the city, and during COVID, they were all shut down.”

Visser thinks that derby players all over the world had the same idea as they did, which is why so many new queer roller skating clubs popped up in public spaces. “I didn't want to go to a skatepark, because it’s too intimidating due to the masculine and competitive environment,” they say. “So I thought, ‘Under the EYE is the perfect spot’.”

At its first meet-up, the club already drew a crowd of about 25 participants of diverse genders and racial backgrounds. “We hadn’t expected so many people, and didn’t think as many of them would keep coming back,” Visser says. “It was incredible.” Last year, they organised a big summer party together with Black Pride to celebrate the end of their first season.

Queer Skate Club, Amsterdam – left: non-binary person with short hair, a beige vest, red pants and roller skates standing in front of a river with a big cruise ship in the background. Right: same person performing a trick on their back in front of several groups of people.
Lin Visser in action.

The progressive origins of roller skating can be traced back to roller derby and its long-standing relationship with feminist and queer communities. Invented in the 1930s by Chicago-based sports promoter Leo Selzer, derby allowed both women and men to participate from the get-go, which was relatively radical back in the day. Its popularity waned over time, but queer people revived it in the early 2000s, transforming it into the inclusive and diverse sport it is today.

In derby, people can explore their inner ruthlessness and aggression, even if they’re not typically like that outside the rink. Every body serves a purpose – large players can knock people down, thin players breeze past their opponents in a flash. It’s why so many people struggling to conform to gendered expectations find comfort and relief in the sport. 

“Girls are taught from a young age to take up as little space as possible, but derby tells you: ‘Let go of society’s expectations, you’re one of us, you can use your body, and please knock down everyone you find in your path’,” Visser says. “I’ve been much more empowered to do that in my daily life, too, for instance, by not stepping aside on the subway if a big guy walks by.”

Besides being a safe haven for the queers, roller skating has also always been important to Black communities. In the US, roller rinks skyrocketed in popularity in the 30s but remained segregated for decades, just like other recreational venues, including amusement parks and swimming pools.

In most places, Black people were only allowed to skate once a week on dedicated nights. Things only started to change during the civil rights movement of the 50s and 60s, when Black rights groups would picket and stage sit-ins in rinks across the US as an act of resistance

Even after desegregation, roller skating rink owners tried to restrict access to racial minorities. But with the rise of disco in the late 70s, Black and queer communities took over the roller skating world in New York and beyond with epic parties and even better soundtracks. Unlike many of the clubs in the city, roller rinks would pretty much allow anyone who had a couple of dollars to come in, turning the venues into popular nightlife hotspots.

Legendary roller skater Bill Butler elevated skating to disco to an art form, earning himself the title of Grandfather of Roller Disco. Soon enough, the scene became so cool everyone wanted to join in, including none other than queer icon Cher.

Queer Skate Club, Amsterdam – group of people in colourful outfits sitting around wearing roller skates and drinking beer.

Jayliah Jada van Gorkum, 24, is one of the regulars at Amsterdam’s Queer Skate Club. A former track and field athlete, van Gorkum used to compete internationally until very recently, but had to stop. “My asthma became too much and I came out as a trans woman last November,” she says. “Because of that, I can no longer compete.”

Van Gorkum’s club never explicitly banned her, but the international conversation about trans people in the track and field world is stacked against trans athletes. In June 2022, the president of World Athletics, the international governing body of the sport, even hinted that they might follow their swimming counterparts in barring trans women from competitions.

The experience made Van Gorkum realise how badly her former sport is still plagued by toxic masculinity. After coming out, she lost her entire social circle in one go. “But then I went to a skate club six weeks ago and saw people dancing and skating and being so free that I thought, ‘I want that, too’,” she says.

Van Gorkum adds that she was also attracted to the sport because it’s easy to put your individual spin on it. “You can dance elegantly or energetically, do stunts or figures,” she explains. “In that sense, roller skating is much more fluid than inline skating, which centres mostly around speed and tricks and is much more performance-oriented.”

Unsurprisingly, roller skating has become pretty big on TikTok, too. “In those videos, you see masculine men who aren’t necessarily queer dancing very elegantly in skates,” van Gorkum enthuses. “That’s what appeals to the queer community: You see all kinds of people defying social norms in skates. It’s a very freeing hobby.”

She believes that the free-spirited and queer nature of roller skating is evident in the neon-coloured crop tops and sparkling skates of the 70s and 80s, too. “The skate culture of those days is on the rise again in the queer community because we want to – and dare to – make ourselves more visible,” she says.

Getting out there and gliding across the concrete lanes and streets of a still-hostile world is, understandably, a great way to represent your community. “So many identities come together, and it feels amazing that we can claim space at the EYE with Queer Skate Club,” van Gorkum says. “We’re showing that we exist and that we are beautiful with our Pride flags and colourful outfits. I’m very proud of that.”

See more photos of the Queer Skate Club below:

Queer Skate Club, Amsterdam – young white woman standing next to a young man and posing together. They're both wearing shorts and a top in tones of black, white and pink and roller skates on their feet.
Queer Skate Club, Amsterdam – two people with short hair lying down on the ground, watching and laughing
Queer Skate Club, Amsterdam – group of people sitting on the grass and chatting in front of the museum
Queer Skate Club, Amsterdam – group of people standing up, talking and laughing together
Queer Skate Club, Amsterdam –  group of people standing in small circles chatting, as one person wearing an all-denim outfit with pink accents and roller skates moves through the crowd
Queer Skate Club, Amsterdam – three people skating side by side, two on roller skates, one with a skateboard
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