Nick Frost: My amazing sports career (really!)

When the world-famous swimmer David Walliams asked me to write something for Sport Relief, I thought it would be nice to jot down my top three sporting moments... so far. So here they are. Enjoy.

Number three

In the early 2000s I was introduced to the noble art of kickboxing, it thrilled me and I loved it. I loved the honour and the discipline and I also loved the punching.

One afternoon a group of us were sparring, I was watching a man I'd never seen at the dojo before roughly fight with a smaller partner. His attacks were relentless and without mercy, the smaller man receiving a proper pasting, it was troublesome to watch. "CHANGE!" barked Sensei Russell. It was my turn to spar with this stranger, he grinned through his gumshield and winked at me as he came forward.

We circled around, sizing each other up. He snapped out crisp shots, I absorbed them and countered. He began showing his frustration at my airtight defence by throwing heavier and heavier punches, I approached and he fired out a vicious front kick, then another. I stepped back guessing what was coming next, a third, rapier-like kick flashed forward, I stepped to one side taking advantage of his poor balance and countered with a spinning back fist to his ear, his defence dropped, his head dropped and – using techniques I had learned both in the dojo and on the cobbles – I flicked out a perfect roundhouse kick to the burly youth's chin.

Upon impact I watched his eyes roll to white and he dropped to the floor, gumshield cartwheeling across the canvas, groaning like an incontinent pensioner. "Stop fighting," yelled Sensei Russell."Frost! 50 press-ups!" I smiled as I pushed out those press-ups. Shouting out each one, crisp and loud, while they lifted big 'un on to a chair. We never saw him again at the dojo.


I hate bullies.

Roll credits.

Number two

For a very short time in the late Nineties, and thanks to my friend Ed Nadi's relentless pestering, I found myself training with the London Nigeria rugby team. I should point out that I am not Nigerian. He reassured me it wouldn't be a problem.

Training with London Nigeria was a real wake-up call for me. In the eight years since I last played things had changed, shit had gotten real. These guys went in hard. They were the first team I ever saw that fought with each other during training.

I felt sorry for the poor non-Nigerians we would be smashing up at the weekend.

The second training session I attended was being run by an ex-England wing forward, the Nigerian Steve Ojomoh. Toward the end of the session we had a small game in which Ojomoh played at No 8. I lined up as the opposing blindside flanker. It was cold and muddy, a long way from the warm sunshine of my beloved Lagos.

Under the floodlights the whistle peeped and a scrum was given. As the packs heaved against one another, I lifted my head and saw Ojomoh peel from the back of the pack, ball in hand. I instinctively unbound from my lock and jinked round the back of the scrum knowing exactly where Ojomoh would be.

He'd gotten no more than four feet from the base of the scrum when he met me coming the other way. My shoulders slammed into his midriff and my arms instinctively grabbed around his thighs of solid ebony. I drove him back and he landed heavily, spilling the ball under the weight of my tackle. The forwards rumbled over us and quickly recycled the ball to our backs.

We lay there for a second until the storm had blown over. Ojomoh stood, helped me to my feet and patted me on the arse and said: "Well done." He ran back into the fray and shortly afterwards the session was over. I had tackled an ex-England player and he had said: "Well done." I was chuffed to bits. I never officially played for London Nigeria despite being chosen for their second team. Somehow that tackle was enough for me.

Number one

Football and me have never got on. My instinct and love for the harder end of contact had always meant I was perhaps a little too heavy-handed for football. Somehow it left me feeling unfulfilled.

From 1991 to 1993, I lived on a kibbutz in the north of Israel called Kibbutz Bar-am. I loved it there, we picked apples and drank and made love and drank and smoked and laughed and swam and drank and in the afternoons while the girls sunbathed the boys would play football, and drink.

I started to really enjoy football and looked forward to finishing work so we could wolf down lunch ready for an afternoon kick-about.

After a month of hacking away at each other in the unrelenting heat, someone came up with the idea that we should play another Kibbutz volunteer team. We all loved this plan, it would give us the chance to leave the kibbutz for a while, play a bit of football and potentially meet some nice girls from the other farm and drink. Calls were made and pretty quickly a date was set. We were to play the neighbouring commune, Kibbutz Merom.

The match started badly for us. Within 15 minutes we were 2-0 down. The heat was so intense we were forced to stop several times during the first half to shotgun cold cans of Maccabee lager. This helped to sharpen our minds and before half-time we were back level.

The whistle blew for the second half and all 22 players shotgunned three beers as tradition dictated. I felt full of verve and running as I watched Kiwi Shaun jog out of defence. Seeing party animal Phil on the left wing near the halfway line he pings a quick, precise pass to him.

I was about 30 yards from the goal on the right of the box. Phil looked up and before my brain knew what was happening my hand had dropped its beer and lifted itself up, indicating to Phil that I was free. He floated an inch-perfect 40-yard pass right on to my chest. I wound up and turned, volleying the ball crisply with my left foot as it fell. I watched in silence, frozen, hanging in mid-air as the ball spun first outwards and then began spinning back. Their goalkeeper never moved, he stood stock still, beer in hand watching the ball flash past. GOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!

The net bulged. I had scored a 30-yard screamer with my wrong foot. I peeled away pumping my fists, I was mobbed by my team-mates, and we whooped and hollered, shotgunning cans. It was the greatest sporting moment of my life. (We went on to lose 4-3 after they brought on three Israeli kids who were shit hot and completely sober).

Suggested Topics
ebooksAn unforgettable anthology of contemporary reportage
Latest stories from i100
Have you tried new the Independent Digital Edition apps?
Independent Dating

By clicking 'Search' you
are agreeing to our
Terms of Use.

iJobs Job Widget
iJobs People

HR Manager - Kent - £45,000

£40000 - £45000 per annum: Ashdown Group: HR Manager / Training Manager (L&D /...

HR Manager - Edgware, London - £45,000

£40000 - £45000 per annum + Benefits: Ashdown Group: HR Manager - Edgware, Lon...

HR Manager - London - £40,000 + bonus

£32000 - £40000 per annum + bonus: Ashdown Group: HR Manager (Generalist) -Old...

Talent Manager / HR Manager - central London - £50,000

£45000 - £50000 per annum: Ashdown Group: Talent / Learning & Development Mana...

Day In a Page

A roller-coaster tale from the 'voice of a generation'

Not That Kind of Girl:

A roller-coaster tale from 'voice of a generation' Lena Dunham
London is not bedlam or a cradle of vice. In fact it, as much as anywhere, deserves independence

London is not bedlam or a cradle of vice

In fact it, as much as anywhere, deserves independence
Vivienne Westwood 'didn’t want' relationship with Malcolm McLaren

Vivienne Westwood 'didn’t want' relationship with McLaren

Designer 'felt pressured' into going out with Sex Pistols manager
Jourdan Dunn: Model mother

Model mother

Jordan Dunn became one of the best-paid models in the world
Apple still coolest brand – despite U2 PR disaster

Apple still the coolest brand

Despite PR disaster of free U2 album
Scottish referendum: The Yes vote was the love that dared speak its name, but it was not to be

Despite the result, this is the end of the status quo

Boyd Tonkin on the fall-out from the Scottish referendum
Manolo Blahnik: The high priest of heels talks flats, Englishness, and why he loves Mary Beard

Manolo Blahnik: Flats, Englishness, and Mary Beard

The shoe designer who has been dubbed 'the patron saint of the stiletto'
The Beatles biographer reveals exclusive original manuscripts of some of the best pop songs ever written

Scrambled eggs and LSD

Behind The Beatles' lyrics - thanks to Hunter Davis's original manuscript copies
'Normcore' fashion: Blending in is the new standing out in latest catwalk non-trend

'Normcore': Blending in is the new standing out

Just when fashion was in grave danger of running out of trends, it only went and invented the non-trend. Rebecca Gonsalves investigates
Dance’s new leading ladies fight back: How female vocalists are now writing their own hits

New leading ladies of dance fight back

How female vocalists are now writing their own hits
Mystery of the Ground Zero wedding photo

A shot in the dark

Mystery of the wedding photo from Ground Zero
His life, the universe and everything

His life, the universe and everything

New biography sheds light on comic genius of Douglas Adams
Save us from small screen superheroes

Save us from small screen superheroes

Shows like Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D are little more than marketing tools
Reach for the skies

Reach for the skies

From pools to football pitches, rooftop living is looking up
These are the 12 best hotel spas in the UK

12 best hotel spas in the UK

Some hotels go all out on facilities; others stand out for the sheer quality of treatments