Life doesn’t care much for your plans, does it? One moment, I was in the ring, fists up, adrenaline pumping, crowds roaring my name. The next, I was just Pete Dawson—no title, no cheers, no purpose. The transition from boxer to cleaner wasn’t exactly one I’d dreamt of, but life throws you a few hooks, and you’ve got to decide whether to dodge or take them on the chin.
Letting Go of the Gloves
When I finally accepted my time in boxing was over, it felt like I’d lost more than just a career—I’d lost myself. For years, I’d been Pete “Big Pete” Dawson, the Neasden bruiser who could go toe-to-toe with anyone. But injuries and age don’t care about your reputation. My body was battered, my joints creaked like an old wooden door, and my head wasn’t as sharp as it once was.
The hardest part wasn’t just stepping away; it was figuring out what came next. Boxing wasn’t just a job; it was my identity. Without it, I felt like I’d been knocked out for good. But bills still came through the door, and I had mouths to feed. I spent months trying to figure out what I could do. My CV might as well have just said, “Can throw a decent left hook.”
It was a mate, Terry, who gave me the nudge I needed. Over a pint at The Crown, he said, “Why not give cleaning a go? It’s good money, mate, and you’re not afraid of hard graft.” At first, I thought he was having a laugh. Me, a cleaner? I was used to sweat and blood, not mops and buckets. But I wasn’t exactly drowning in offers.
My First Day
I’ll never forget my first cleaning job. It was in a posh house up in Hampstead. You know, the kind of place where the wine rack’s bigger than most people’s kitchens. They handed me a mop, pointed to a mess on the marble floor, and left me to it. I spent the next few hours terrified I’d scratch something worth more than my car.
At first, I felt like I’d hit rock bottom. I was scrubbing floors instead of stepping into a ring. But as the hours passed, something clicked. Cleaning wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work. It reminded me of the gym—hard graft, showing up even when you didn’t feel like it, and getting stuck in.
By the end of the day, I felt something I hadn’t felt in ages—pride. The floors were spotless, and I’d done that. It wasn’t the roar of a crowd, but it was something.
Finding My Rhythm
There’s a skill to cleaning, more than I ever imagined. You’ve got to know what products to use on different surfaces, how to tackle stubborn grime, and even how to make a bed look like something out of a fancy hotel. I started watching YouTube videos, learning tips from the pros. I treated it like I’d treated boxing—study, practice, perfect.
Some jobs were tougher than others. I once cleaned a flat that looked like it had been hit by a tornado. Takeaway boxes piled high, mould in the fridge, and socks that could’ve walked out on their own. It was grim, but by the time I finished, it looked half-decent. That feeling of transformation, of turning chaos into order, reminded me of training a raw rookie into a fighter.
The Faces Behind the Mess
Cleaning isn’t just about the dirt; it’s about the people. You get a glimpse into their lives, whether they want you to or not. There was the elderly woman who’d sit in her armchair humming old show tunes while I polished her mantelpiece. Or the single dad trying to keep it together with three kids under six. Each house tells a story, and I’ve learned not to judge.
One of the strangest moments was cleaning for a young couple who worked in the City. Their flat was spotless, but they’d hired me to make it “hotel perfect” for a party. It felt odd, cleaning up before the mess even happened. But hey, it’s their money.
You also get the cheeky ones who think a cleaner’s invisible. I’ve walked in on all sorts—couples bickering, kids sneaking sweets, and one bloke who was stark naked because he’d “forgotten I was coming.” Never a dull day.
Boxing Lessons in Cleaning
It didn’t take long before I realised my boxing days had prepared me for this new chapter in ways I hadn’t expected. Cleaning, like boxing, is all about rhythm. You find your pace, whether it’s scrubbing a sink or dodging a punch. There’s strategy too—working smart, not just hard.
I started setting little challenges for myself: Could I clean the kitchen in under 30 minutes? Could I get that oven door looking brand new? It might sound daft, but those small wins kept me going.
And let’s not forget the physical side. Lugging vacuums, moving furniture, and scrubbing tiles is no walk in the park. It’s a workout in its own right, and I’ve got the callouses to prove it.
What Cleaning Gave Me
When I was boxing, I thought success was all about titles and trophies. But cleaning’s taught me that there’s dignity in hard work, no matter what you’re doing. It’s about showing up, giving it your all, and taking pride in a job well done.
That’s not to say I don’t miss boxing. Some days, when I’m in an empty house with only the sound of a hoover for company, I catch myself shadowboxing in the kitchen. The dream of setting up my own boxing club in Neasden is still there, burning quietly. One day, I’ll make it happen.
Until then, I’ll keep scrubbing floors, dusting shelves, and taking life one mop stroke at a time. Because whether it’s in the ring or in someone’s living room, it’s not about what you’re doing—it’s about how you do it. And me? I do it like a champ.