Jack Cullen

Jack Cullen, affectionately known as “Little Lever’s Meat Cleaver,” is a British professional boxer born on November 7, 1993, in Bolton, Lancashire, England. Growing up in Little Lever, a town within Bolton, Cullen was no stranger to hard work. Before fully committing to boxing, he worked as a laborer on construction sites. A major turning point in his life came when he suffered a serious accident—falling from scaffolding—which resulted in a fractured wrist, a slight head fracture, and rib injuries. The incident forced him into a two-year hiatus from boxing during his amateur career. His amateur journey included competing in the men’s middleweight division at the 2014 English National Championships, where he was narrowly eliminated in the quarter-finals by Jack Langford via a 2:1 points decision.

Cullen turned professional in October 2016, debuting with a four-round points victory over Curtis Gargano. He steadily built momentum with notable wins over opponents like John Harding Jr. and Avni Yıldırım. In September 2023, Cullen captured the British and Commonwealth super-middleweight titles with an emphatic third-round stoppage of Mark Heffron at Manchester Arena. Though he lost the belts in his first defense against Zak Chelli via unanimous decision in January 2024, Cullen remained undeterred.

In April 2024, he faced Luka Plantic for the WBC International super-middleweight title. Despite a gritty fight , Cullen suffered a fifth-round TKO. Reinventing himself once again, he made a successful transition to bare-knuckle boxing, debuting at BKFC Fight Night: Manchester on March 29, 2025. Facing Jakub Kosicki, Cullen secured a first-round TKO victory after two knockdowns and a doctor stoppage.

Cullen’s nickname, “Meat Cleaver,” isn’t just clever wordplay—it symbolizes his life’s journey. He traded work boots for boxing gloves and began breaking backs in the ring with the same grit he once used to break down kitchens. Before boxing fame, he was hauling crates, scrubbing floors, and preparing lunches—grinding out a living while nursing a dream that seemed distant.

Jack Cullen fights like a rangy Tarzan—long-limbed, vine-swinging, wild but measured. His body looks built for survival, not show. Arms like branches—wiry, extended. Each punch feels like it comes from a high place. His jab? That’s the first swing through the trees. It sets the arc. It tells you how far he can reach. When it lands, it feels like a vine slapping your chest—thin but stinging, pulling you into the next motion. Jab-cross-hook? That’s the next branch, the next swing, and suddenly you’re caught in his rhythm, moving to his tempo. He throws with a kind of jungle discipline—nothing wasted, everything stretched to its limit.

He’s not explosive like a cheetah. He’s heavy like a gorilla. Cullen’s got that moderate, mule-kick power—nothing flashy, but all of it built to last. His shots carry weight because they come from a distance. His left hook whips around like a hanging limb snapping back into place. He doesn’t throw to finish; he throws to break you down. It’s vine-to-vine, knuckle-to-rib, one swing at a time. He can trade with heavier fighters because his reach gives him time. He can deal with faster ones because his rhythm steals pace. Even when the fight gets ugly, he moves like a man used to climbing through chaos.

His footwork isn’t neat—it’s jungle floor footwork. Roots, rocks, uneven. He walks into his pockets, but not carelessly. He steps like someone who knows the weight of every branch. Forward, then side. He cuts off exits, not with speed, but with angles. It’s not boxing school. It’s forest instinct. He leans. He lingers. Then he lashes out. And when he presses, it feels less like a game plan and more like a hunt.

Jack Cullen is a power junkie in disguise. He doesn’t chase knockouts, but he’s addicted to presence. Addicted to the feeling of controlling another fighter’s movement. He doesn’t need to swing hard—just to swing enough. Just to keep the rhythm going. Just to keep you in the trees, too tired to climb, too scared to fall.

He’s Tarzan with a death stare. Grim Reaper in the jungle. Long arms, patient steps, and a style that drags you out of your rhythm and into his. Not wild, but untamed. Not polished, but primal. He doesn’t just fight you—he wraps around you. And once you’re caught, there’s no clean break. Just the sound of branches snapping and the slow swing of another jab.