THE OBSESSION

A Thousand-Mile Journey Begins

After seeing The Wheel of Life, my obsession with Kung Fu intensified.

What had begun as fascination quickly became an all-consuming passion. Every spare moment revolved around training, martial arts movies, and the dream of one day becoming a Shaolin warrior. I immersed myself in the worlds of Jackie Chan films, Dragon Ball Z, and the legendary stories of Shaolin monks, convinced that somewhere within those stories lay a path to unlocking my own potential.

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Weekends were spent rewatching my growing collection of VHS tapes. Films such as Drunken Master, The 36th Chamber of Shaolin, Rumble in the Bronx, and Rush Hour played repeatedly in my bedroom. Using the play-pause function on the VCR, I would slow scenes down frame by frame, studying every movement in meticulous detail. Whether it was a kip-up from the floor, a drunken boxing sequence, or an acrobatic kick, I was determined to understand how it worked and then teach myself how to do it.

My bedroom became a laboratory for martial arts experimentation.

Trips to the local DIY store resulted in sheets of metal, plastic piping, rope, and chains that I transformed into homemade training weapons. I made swords, nunchucks, staffs, and eventually my first three-section staff, which I remember building as if it were yesterday. Every park, field, and open space became a training ground.

That Christmas, I received the Shaolin Wheel of Life VHS. It quickly became my most treasured possession.

For countless hours I studied the traditional Kung Fu styles demonstrated by the monks—mantis, tiger, dragon, snake—as well as the weapons forms, from straight sword to chain whip and three-section staff. Whenever I wasn’t watching it, I was outside attempting to recreate what I had seen. Around this time I also began teaching myself how to backflip, slowly building confidence through endless practice at the local park.

I was no longer simply watching Kung Fu.

I was trying to live it.

Eventually, I heard about a school called Shaolin Gong Fu City, which operated classes in Enfield, Leyton and Walthamstow. The school was run by a London-born instructor known as Shifu Browne alongside a Chinese teacher who was advertised as an ordained Shaolin monk named Shi Heng Long.

At fourteen years old, I joined the club.

As with most martial arts schools I attended, I progressed quickly and threw myself into training. However, complications soon emerged. There was tension and politics within the organisation, and my mother eventually discovered that the Chinese receptionist, who was in a relationship with Shifu Brown, had allegedly been subjected to violent abuse by him. Disturbed by what she learned, my mother immediately stopped me from attending the classes.

Despite this, I maintained my relationship with Shi Heng Long.

Soon I was travelling to train with him before school every morning. My alarm would sound before dawn, and I would make my way to the Walthamstow YMCA, arriving around six o’clock. We would train for several hours before I continued my journey to school in Camden.

His English was limited, and we communicated largely through training.

Spending so many hours together, we became close. Yet the more time I spent around him, the more questions I began to have. He smoked. He drank alcohol. He lost his temper easily. On one occasion, after becoming frustrated while speaking to a delivery company on the phone, he hurled the handset across the room, smashed it against a wall, and punched a hole through a door.

Watching this behaviour was confusing.

The image I carried of Shaolin monks was one of wisdom, discipline, and spiritual mastery. Seeing someone presented as a monk behave in this way challenged my assumptions. Gradually, I became less attached to the romanticised image of Shaolin spirituality and more interested in the physical reality of Kung Fu itself.

Nevertheless, I continued training.

I travelled across the country performing demonstrations and attending events in cities such as Manchester, Birmingham, and Liverpool. Long weekends were spent on motorways, travelling from venue to venue, immersed in the world I loved.

My commitment deepened.

To the shock of my parents, I shaved my head completely bald. I still remember arriving home after my master had shaved it off. My mother stared at me in disbelief.

By then, my bedroom walls were covered with Kung Fu posters. I had begun making my own robes in different colours—orange, yellow, green, black, and brown. Everything in my life revolved around training.

My mother realised this was no longer a phase.

It was who I was becoming.

I pushed my body relentlessly. I trained as often as possible, studying videotapes in slow motion and practising everything from mantis techniques to three-section staff forms. I began conditioning my fists, arms, and head in preparation for the hard Qigong demonstrations I dreamed of performing one day. I imagined breaking bricks with my head, snapping sticks across my body, and developing the extraordinary abilities I had witnessed on stage and on screen.

As I entered Years 10 and 11, another reality was unfolding around me.

Gang culture was becoming increasingly prevalent. Violence was common. Muggings, stabbings, and assaults were regular occurrences. Students carried knives and, occasionally, guns. Fireworks were set off in school corridors, sending crowds of students running in panic. One young man I knew lost his eyesight.

It felt normal because it was everywhere.

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t.

I felt trapped between two possible futures.

One path was the environment surrounding me—violence, gangs, and a life with no real direction. The other was Kung Fu, discipline, and the dream that had begun years earlier in the Dominion Theatre.

I knew which path I wanted.

By sixteen, my desire to train had become overwhelming. I wanted to train multiple times every day, and the constant travelling placed enormous pressure on my mother, who was forever driving me from one class to another.

Desperate for independence, I made one of the most reckless decisions of my life.

Together with a friend who was slightly older than me, I purchased an old white Ford from a man living in a caravan. It cost £250.

Unable to legally drive, insure, or tax the vehicle, we created fake documents and put it on the road anyway. I parked it outside my friend’s house across the street and began driving myself to training sessions.

For a while, I got away with it.

Then one Sunday morning everything fell apart.

I had driven to Wanstead Leisure Centre and arrived early, as usual. After setting up the entire matted training area, I spent several hours training alone before the other students arrived.

When the session finally ended, I returned to my car and discovered I had left the lights on all day.

The battery was completely dead.

Panicking, I called my cousin, who worked as a mechanic. He came to help and got the car running again.

What I didn’t realise was that he had already called my parents.

By the time I arrived home, they were waiting.

The truth was out.

The conversation that followed was one of the most important of my life.

My parents confiscated the keys and arranged for the car to be removed and scrapped the following day. During the discussion, I finally explained everything I had been feeling.

I was doing well enough at school, but I had no passion for academic life. I had no clear direction. The constant violence around me, combined with my obsession with training, left me feeling trapped.

I wasn’t depressed, and I wasn’t suicidal.

But I genuinely believed that if I stayed on the path I was on, the future waiting for me would eventually destroy me.

Kung Fu had become more than a hobby.

It had become my escape.

My purpose.

My chance to build a different life.

For the first time, my mother fully understood.

She could see the determination behind my words. She understood both my fear and my dream.

Eventually, she agreed to something extraordinary.

I would leave school for a gap year and travel to China, with the understanding that I would return afterwards to complete my education.

This was the opportunity I had dreamed about for years.

The journey to Shaolin had finally begun.