MICHAEL BISPING WITH ANTHONY EVANS
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QUITTERS NEVER WIN
CONTENTS
PICTURE CREDITS
CHAPTER ONE: THE COUNT
CHAPTER TWO: LAST CALL
CHAPTER THREE: THE BEGINNING
CHAPTER FOUR: BEST IN BRITAIN
CHAPTER FIVE: THE ULTIMATE FIGHTER
CHAPTER SIX: TUF TIMES
CHAPTER SEVEN: VISA PROBLEMS … AND SOME OTHER THINGS
CHAPTER EIGHT: HOMECOMING
CHAPTER NINE: MAIN EVENT
CHAPTER TEN: ONE EIGHT FIVE
CHAPTER ELEVEN: I’M GOING TO BE A CONTENDER
CHAPTER TWELVE: AIN’T GOING NOWHERE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: ANY TIME, ANY PLACE
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: EYE OF A NEEDLE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: SILVA BULLET
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: ACTING HARD
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: (ONE) EYE ON THE PRIZE
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: CONCEIVED, BELIEVED, ACHIEVED
CHAPTER NINETEEN: FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
CHAPTER TWENTY: THE FINAL COUNTDOWN
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: ANYTHING’S POSSIBLE
PICTURE SECTION
AFTERWORD
MICHAEL BISPING CAREER STATISTICS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael ‘The Count’ Bisping was raised in Lancashire, descended from Polish nobility on his father’s side. He began training martial arts at the age of eight. After briefly quitting training at the age of 18, he took up boxing, kickboxing and MMA, making his professional debut in in 2004 and becoming Cage Rage light heavyweight champion within just three matches. In 2008 he made his middleweight debut in the UFC, and became UFC Middleweight Champion and the first (and only) British UFC champion in 2016. Since retiring in 2018, Michael has remained a powerful and passionate voice in the UFC community and also hosts a popular UFC podcast named after his catchphrase, Believe You Me. He lives in California with his wife and three children.
For Rebecca. Without her, the following wouldn’t have happened…
Picture Credits
Images 1, 2, 3, 7, 9, 12, 18, 19, 24, 29, 30 and 31 courtesy of Michael Bisping
Images 4, 5, 6, 8, 10, 11, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 20, 21, 22, 23, 25, 26, 27, 28 © Getty Images/Zuffa LLC
CHAPTER ONE
THE COUNT
Bisping couldn’t sleep the night before the big battle.
He knew nothing about the adversary he’d be fighting the next day. He felt unprepared. As the other fighters conserved their energy and took their minds off fighting with idle chatter, Bisping left the camp. He was going to spy on the enemy.
He travelled on foot into the dusk and continued until the sky was pitch-black. He walked slowly, crawling at times to avoid the attention of wolves which, he knew, could weigh over 10 stone. Finally, he reached the foot of the mountain that had been on the horizon. There was no moon but the stars, unusually bright, gave light enough for Bisping to pick his way up the slopes and through the vineyards that clung to its moist soil.
From the summit, Bisping found what he was looking for: the enemy encampment. It was too dark to see the individual soldiers, but every campfire was clearly visible in the night, and these allowed him to make an accurate estimate of the enemy’s number. And Bisping – or Bischoping as he would have spelled it – returned to his own camp armed with that vital piece of information.
With full knowledge of the forces opposing them, the army of the Prince-Bishop, sovereign ruler of the state of Münster, attacked immediately. The rout of these invaders earned Bischoping (Germanic for ‘Bishop’s Man’) land and the hereditary title of Count. The family coat of arms was created – it depicts a bright star over a grapevine.
That coat of arms was worn centuries later by Thomas Bischoping when he served in the army of King Stefan Batory of Poland. Thomas had been born around 1560 in Münster but left home to seek greater fame and fortune in the war against Ivan the Terrible’s Russian army. Like his ancestor, Thomas’s courage and fighting ability were rewarded by the grant of lands – this time on the provision that Thomas and his descendants would defend it against invasions from the north.
Two decades later, on 4 January 1609, Thomas’s younger son, Johann Bischoping, rode his horse through the gates of Hradcany Castle in Prague. He demanded an audience with King Rudolph II, the Holy Roman Emperor.
As the younger son in an age when only the eldest inherited lands and titles, Johann had left his ancestral home to seek his own fortune and glory as a commander in the army of Lithuania. But, initially, the Lithuanian military questioned whether the man who showed up was truly one of the famous Bischoping fighting noblemen.
Johann vowed to return with proof of his birthright – a letter signed by the King.
The Imperial Chancellery’s endorsement of Johann’s nobility, dated 5 January 1609, is still in the Vienna State Archives. Written in Latin, the document describes in minute detail the Bischoping coat of arms and warns any royal house of Europe refusing to recognise Johann Bischoping’s status will be fined 50 gold marks (half of which would be paid to Johann, and half to the treasury).
Now convinced the knight was the man he claimed to be, the Lithuanian army dispatched Bischoping and a garrison of men to defend a stretch of the northern border. Johann defended it so well that he was granted ownership of much of the land. Now a nobleman in his own right, Johann had founded another Bisping dynasty.
On 12 September 1683, Teofil Bisping served gallantly in the liberation of Vienna from the Ottoman Empire forces who’d laid siege to the city since July. The Bisping banner is displayed to this day in a Viennese chapel commemorating ‘the rescue’.
A century later, when Poland ceased to be recognised by the Russian, Austrian and Prussian aggressors as an independent state, Jan Bisping was among the nobles who refused to surrender. In 1812, that Bisping founded a military unit and joined forces with Napoleon to fight against their common enemies.
One hundred and thirty years later, at the onset of the Second World War, another Jan Bisping was the latest Bisping to be called upon to defend his ancestral home. This time the invading Russians wore the uniforms of the USSR’s Red Army. They came with machine guns and tanks and the orders to kill every Polish noble.
Jan Bisping had no choice but to flee west into what was now German-occupied Poland. He and his wife Maria loaded their 11 children on a cart drawn by draught horses. Communist sympathisers arrived and blocked their escape. Jan handed rifles to his three eldest sons, including 15-year-old Andrzej, and charged. The communists scattered as the young Bispings fired and the cart got through.
The Germans allowed the Bispings to pass into the territory they occupied, and the family were given shelter in a farmhouse. They probably rested easy for the first time in days, but they were not out of the reach of the Red Army yet.
It was September 1939 and the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact between Russia and Germany came into effect. The Bispings had gone to sleep in the relative safety of German-occupied Poland; when they woke the border had been moved miles to the west, and they were again deep into Russian territory. A desperate flight to the new border ensued but the Russians were determined to capture the nobleman. As they closed in on him, Jan Bisping gave himself up so his family could escape.
He was never heard from again.
Maria made it to Western Europe. Some of her children were taken in by relations in powerful families in Italy and France but she continued until reaching England. Andrzej, now a man, accompanied her. With his mother safe, Andrzej (‘Andrew’) joined the Free Polish unit of the British military.
His son, the latest Jan Bisping, was born in London after the war. Proud
of the country of his birth, Jan served in the British Army until the 1980s.
I am Jan’s son. My name is Michael Bisping. I am a fighter from a very long line of fighters.
I was born Michael Galen-Bisping on 28 February 1979. My mother, Kathleen, was taken to the Princess Mary’s Hospital at the small Akrotiri British military base near Limassol, in the south of Cyprus. Like with international embassies, military bases are sovereign territory. I’d have to explain that I was actually born on British soil to UFC producers, who thought they needed to show the twin olive branch flag of Cyprus when I was introduced in the Octagon.
My parents met during my dad’s previous stationing to Ballykinler Barracks in County Down, Northern Ireland. My mother was one of 12 children and contracted polio as a child; she’s extremely tough and mentally strong. A British officer getting involved with an Irish civilian was not the done thing during the mid-1970s but, at 6ft 6in tall, my dad had long since gotten used to a) attracting sideways glances and b) not really giving a fuck.
They married and had a big family. I came after my big brothers Stephen and Konrad, and twins Maxine and Adam followed and then finally my little sister Shireen completed the Bisping family.
My dad left the army in 1983 after serving our country for 17 years. The Cyprian heat had somewhat alleviated the after-effects of an IRA nail bomb but as he started to get older those injuries began to prevent Dad from doing the job he loved, which he found frustrating.
Now I’m the same age he was then, I can relate.
After his honourable discharge, Dad moved the whole family to Clitheroe, Lancashire, where his mother had grown up. My nan had died in a car crash years before, but we still had family in the area and Dad felt he could better support us in the North rather than in London where he’d been raised.
Worthy of a picture postcard, Clitheroe, population 15,517, is up a bit and a little to the left of Manchester. It has very narrow streets, old stonework buildings that blend in to the countryside and even has an eleventh-century castle. At the American producers’ insistence, the Norman keep has lurked in the background of many a UFC Countdown show. They love a castle, the Yanks.
Despite the castle, the surrounding countryside and an olde tea room that does a good trade in Cornettos during those few days a year when it’s warm, Clitheroe is a working-class town. Monday to Friday, its factories and industrial estates are full of hard-grinding people and – as I’d come to know in my teens – on the weekend Clitheroe’s pubs and bars are ram-packed with people celebrating the end of another week of hard work.
More of that later.
If we were underprivileged, the only reason I knew that was because bullies at St Michael and St John’s school made sure of it. Wearing the same school shirt days in a row, having a mediocre brand of trainers on my feet (which may or may not have been waiting in a cupboard since they got too small for my older brothers) – these were the main avenues of attack.
I’m not going to bullshit you. I could say that, like Georges St-Pierre or Daniel Cormier, the reason I began in martial arts was with the honourable intention of learning how to defend myself. But the reason I started training was because I liked being a fighter. I followed my brother Konrad to a class one night and found that this was more than something I was good at – this was who I was.
The martial art I studied was a version of Japanese jujitsu called Yawara Ryu. It was a full-system style martial art with throws, grappling on the ground, submissions and striking with fists, feet, knees and elbows. If that sounds familiar, it should; years before the advent of the UFC or Pancrase in Japan, here was a proto-mixed martial art in the UK.
I remember the excitement of my first day of training. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, so copied everybody else. When everyone stood in a line with their left fist and left foot forward, so did I. By the time anyone explained to me that, being left-handed, I was supposed to lead with my right it was too late. Without intending it, I was now a converted southpaw and my jab would be thrown using my power hand for the rest of my martial arts career.
Yawara Ryu, as the schools which followed its curriculum called it, was developed by a visionary martial artist and sports scientist named Paul Davies.
Coming from a military background, my dad understood the life lessons I could gain from training. He was incredibly supportive of my new obsession. If I needed a new gi (white uniform) or gloves, I got them. He drove me all over the country as I entered not only jiu-jitsu but full-contact karate and kickboxing tournaments. My dad was my driver, advocate and cheerleader – he also enjoyed giving me grief on the occasions I didn’t win.
By the middle of high school I’d usually enter and win the Under-15 category, then win the Under-18 and, if they’d let me, usually reach the final if not win the adult competition.
Paul Davies took notice. When the local Yawara Ryu club in Clitheroe shut down, Davies spoke to my dad about me training in Nottingham. Twice a week my dad would do the four-hour round trip so I could continue training.
It was a funny excuse for not doing homework:
‘I couldn’t do it,’ I’d tell my teachers, honestly enough. ‘I went to Nottingham again last night and didn’t get home till 1am.’
‘Michael,’ they’d say, ‘there’s no way anyone is driving you to Nottingham – a four-hour round trip – twice a week to do martial arts.’
‘My dad is.’
My favourite type of competition, by far, was Knockdown Sport Budo. Just as he’d developed his own fighting system with Yawara Ryu, Paul Davies also created his own expression of combat sports with KSBO.
If you think of modern MMA and subtract wrestling takedowns and Brazilian jiu-jitsu (BJJ) guard work and add a five-second count-out, that’s essentially what a KSBO fight looked like. There were over 30 UK clubs affiliated with KSBO – including several like London Shootfighters which would, in time, become full-blown MMA gyms and produce UFC fighters of their own – and many more in Sweden, France and elsewhere in Europe.
Four times a year, these clubs would send their best fighters to compete against each other in KSBO tournaments. I won titles in 1995, 1996, 1997 and 1998. Davies would telephone me incessantly, holding me hostage on the handset plugged in near the bottom of the stairs as he waxed lyrical about how KSBO would eventually become this massive mainstream sport.
When I was 16, Davies presented me with the chance to travel to New Zealand to compete in the jiu-jitsu world championships. I’d be fighting grown men with years of experience at this level.
My family and friends helped me get just about enough money to go. Blackburn Rugby Union Football Club, where I played as a flanker, went above and beyond and threw a fundraising dinner for me. What an adventure for a 16-year-old, amazing, I couldn’t wait!
I travelled with an older fighter, a 6ft 5in monster called Richard who was competing for the heavyweight title in New Zealand and then remaining in the country indefinitely. He was twice my age and, supposedly, would be looking after me on my first trip to the other side of the world. We’d be staying with a friend of his when we landed in New Zealand.
Richard was waiting for me at Heathrow airport. Right away he goes, ‘Here, I got too many bags – carry this for me,’ and handed me his rucksack.
Things started going wrong on the first leg of the flight. Our connection in Bali was delayed until the following afternoon. No worries, the competition wasn’t until the weekend, and a day stretching our legs sounded good to me. But, unlike New Zealand, Bali requires visitors to have six months – minimum – left on their passport. Mine only had five.
‘You stay here in the airport – see you tomorrow.’ And with that Richard left me – and his carry-on bag – and disappeared through customs. Then the airport security threatened to put me on a plane back to England before, at 3am and after hours of me arguing with them, deciding instead I needed to leave the airport immediately.
‘Come back, get on plane. No wait for plane here. Go!
’
So there’s me, 16 years old, with my own suitcase, Richard’s suitcase and, of course, Richard’s fucking rucksack. I’m basically a teenaged packhorse. I’m wearing a tracksuit and trainers which are already squelching with foot sweat in the humidity of Bali.
Dog-tired and desperate to get some sleep, I flagged a cab outside the airport and asked to be taken to a decently priced hotel. He drove by several reasonably priced hotels until I realised he was either running up his tab or taking me somewhere I really didn’t want to go.
‘Stop! Stop!’ I get out the cab, with my luggage, next to open sewers on both sides of the road and straw-hat-wearing old men straight out of every martial arts movie. I drag those suitcases for over an hour – in a giant fucking circle. I’d been awake for 26 hours. I just needed somewhere to lie down – so I headed in the direction of the beach.
‘Hey – young man! Young man! Come have a beer!’ shouts a German accent from a beach dive bar made out of driftwood and bamboo.
Just to sit down and peel those suitcases out of my palms felt amazing – so you can imagine how the beer made me feel. I began to tell bar patrons – three impossibly drunk fat German businessmen and a local transvestite – my troubles.
‘So … nowhere to stay tonight?’ the transvestite repeated back to me. ‘Yes, you do. You come stay with me.’
Now, I didn’t want to be impolite, but I was happy when the Germans said I could come back to their posh hotel instead. A monkey woke me up. Jet-lagged and drunk off bottled beers, I’d passed out on the German guys’ balcony. Now I was getting woken up by a monkey – a wild animal who apparently lived nearby – laughing at me. Of course he was – I’d pissed my tracksuit in my sleep.
The Germans rolled through the door, back from what I imagined was a breakfast of piled sausages. I didn’t want them to see that I’d pissed myself, so I thanked them for their hospitality and got outta there.
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