I am 44 years old.
I have ADHD.
I am dyslexic.
I left school at 15.
And even now, there are moments when that old voice still turns up.
You’re not clever enough.
You’re not polished enough.
You don’t belong in the room.
I have spent most of my life proving that voice wrong.
Hairdressing.
Business.
Football.
Writing.
Now music.
Different stages.
Same fight.
It All Looks Random Until You See The Pattern
People often ask me what football, Hairbond, writing and music have got to do with each other.
On the surface, not much.
A barber.
A hair product entrepreneur.
A football boots entrepreneur.
A football agent.
A writer.
A bloke singing songs in pubs.
Looks completely random.
It isn’t.
My grandad once gave me a piece of advice.
“Master everything connected to you.”
At the time, I didn’t fully understand what he meant.
I do now.
I started in hairdressing.
Then college.
Then barbering.
Then I owned a barbershop.
Then I built Hairbond.
Then I learned distribution and worked with other brands.
Then came Stylo Matchmakers football boots.
Then football.
Then representing players.
Then helping athletes build careers.
Then supporter-owned football.
Then writing.
Now music.
Looking back, none of it was random.
Every step connected to the next.
Every chapter taught me something useful for the one that followed.
The product was never really the point.
The people were.
Hairdressing taught me how to listen to people.
Barbering taught me how men talk when they feel safe.
Hairbond taught me how identity is built through confidence.
Stylo Matchmakers taught me how brands connect with people through aspiration and belonging.
Football taught me how ambition, fear, ego and loyalty collide.
Writing taught me how to explain people.
Music is teaching me how to move people.
It is all storytelling.
Every bit of it.
The Years Nobody Saw
The last few years have not been easy.
People see the articles, the businesses, the football projects and the ideas.
They do not always see the days behind them.
The mornings when getting out of bed felt like the win.
The doubt that got louder than confidence.
The private moments when I questioned whether I had any fight left.
But I kept moving.
I kept writing.
I kept building.
I kept showing up.
Not because I always felt strong.
Because I refused to stop.
That might be the biggest lesson of all.
You do not always need motivation.
Sometimes you just need movement.
The ADHD Part
ADHD is a strange thing.
My brain has never worked in straight lines.
It jumps.
It wanders.
It chases ideas.
Sometimes it chases ten ideas at once.
That can be exhausting.
For me and probably everyone around me.
But it can also be a gift.
Because when something grabs me, it really grabs me.
I obsess.
I study it.
I pull it apart.
I try to understand why it works.
That obsession has followed me through every chapter of my life.
Now it has found music.
And music has humbled me fast.
It is one thing to write a line.
It is another thing to stand behind a microphone, feel your throat tighten, miss a word, grab the next breath and keep going while your brain is shouting at you to look normal.
That is the rep.
Not glamorous.
Not polished.
But real.
Backroom Saints Is Not Really A Music Project
That may sound strange.
But it is true.
Backroom Saints is not really a music project.
It is the latest chapter in a 30-year obsession with understanding people.
Working-class stories.
Northern pubs.
Friendship.
Loss.
Hope.
Humour.
Defiance.
Real people.
Real places.
Real lives.
Whether I was cutting hair, selling product, representing footballers, writing articles or building football projects, the same thing kept pulling me back.
People.
What they want.
What they fear.
What they hide.
What they love.
What they will fight for.
Backroom Saints is just another way of telling those stories.
Only this time, the stories are wrapped in songs.
The Connection Problem
The music industry talks a lot about streams, algorithms, playlists and promotion.
I understand why.
Visibility matters.
Distribution matters.
But none of that is the mountain.
Connection is the mountain.
I listen to a lot of modern music and sometimes it feels like perfection without humanity.
The notes are right.
The production is clean.
The image is polished.
But I do not feel anything.
That is not a criticism of individual artists.
It is a criticism of a system that often rewards polish more than truth.
That is why I keep coming back to Johnny Cash.
Not because he was perfect.
Because he was believable.
There were technically better singers than Johnny Cash.
There always are.
But when he sang, it felt lived in.
It felt scarred.
It felt true.
That is the standard I am chasing.
Not perfection.
Truth.
AI helped me create the Backroom Saints songs.
I am not pretending otherwise.
The technology helped me get ideas out of my head and into the world.
But creating a song and performing a song are two completely different things.
AI cannot stand behind a microphone for me.
AI cannot connect with an audience for me.
AI cannot make somebody believe me.
That part is my job.
That is why my biggest challenge is not beating an algorithm.
It is earning connection.
Level 4
Level 1 is reading the words.
Level 2 is remembering the words.
Level 3 is performing the song.
Level 4 is when people stop hearing the song and start seeing themselves in it.
That is where I want to get to.
Level 4.
The place where somebody hears a song and says:
“That reminds me of my dad.”
“That reminds me of my hometown.”
“That reminds me of a mate I lost.”
“That reminds me of my life.”
That is where the magic lives.
The Songs Are Becoming A Map
The songs are not random to me.
They are different doors into the same world.
A tribute to the people and artists who inspired me, the ones who lit something in me that I now carry forward as a flame.
A tribute to Sarah Connor from The Terminator: a mother fighting for humanity against impossible odds.
I Still Believe In Angels is faith and doubt.
The song where I question the church while still holding onto a belief in God.
The old table. The same faces. The room where ordinary people become family for a few hours.
Send The Guns To Space is protest.
A song born from the belief that ordinary people too often pay the price for decisions made by powerful people.
A song I have known for years. A classic pub chorus where voices join together and everyone remembers they are still alive.
Together, they are teaching me what Backroom Saints actually is.
Legacy.
Courage.
Faith.
Belonging.
Protest.
Release.
That is not a playlist.
That is a map.
The Dream
Some of my best work has been produced during periods when the rest of my life was falling apart.
I would love to eventually take Backroom Saints around the world.
Not because I want fame.
Because I love stories.
Pubs in Lancashire.
Bars in Chicago.
Clubs in Dublin.
Venues in Australia.
Anywhere people understand hard work.
Friendship.
Loss.
Hope.
The location changes.
The stories do not.
Maybe That’s The Point
Maybe the point is not becoming a singer.
Maybe the point is proving that growth does not have an age limit.
At 44, I am still learning.
Still failing.
Still improving.
Still willing to look foolish.
Because the moment you stop being willing to look foolish is the moment you stop growing.
And if one day somebody on the other side of the world hears a Backroom Saints song and says:
“That feels like my life.”
Then I will know I reached Level 4.
And every rep will have been worth it.