‘I SHOULD be in Dusseldorf.’ As I stand by my brother’s side this Saturday, ready to pass him the rings and fulfil various other Best Man duties at his third (yes, third) wedding, will this shameful thought enter my mind? Or will the only pangs of guilt emanate from the fact I am in Stevenage rather than Germany and the unshakeable feeling that I have somehow let Tyson Fury down.

How strange it is this dynamic between boxer and writer. Tyson Fury and I are not friends – he has no idea it’s my brother’s wedding. I don’t even kid myself that he trusts me implicitly – Fury that is, not my brother although the same could apply – as I do not believe he would bestow that honour upon anyone outside his immediate family. But as he approaches the pivotal point of an enigmatic, always entertaining career, challenging Wladimir Klitschko for the world heavyweight title, I am moved to reflect on my somewhat trifling status as arguably the journalist who has most intimately documented a professional career that has, in its timeline at least, almost mirrored my own.

Next – page 2 of 6: The Fury Journey begins

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