Jack Cullen

Jack Cullen, known as “Little Lever’s Meat Cleaver,” is a British professional boxer born on November 7, 1993, in Bolton, Lancashire, England. Standing at 6 feet 3 inches. Cullen grew up in Little Lever, a village in Bolton, where he balanced laboring jobs during the day with boxing training at night. His dedication to the sport was evident from a young age, despite facing challenges that included a serious accident in his late teens, which temporarily sidelined his boxing aspirations.

In 2014, Cullen competed in the English National Championships, reaching the quarter-finals before losing to Jack Langford via a 2:1 points decision at the Echo Arena in Liverpool. This experience laid the groundwork for his transition to the professional ranks.

Cullen made his professional debut on October 22, 2016, securing a unanimous decision victory over Curtis Gargano. Over the years, he has faced a mix of victories and setbacks. A notable highlight came in September 2023, when he claimed the British and Commonwealth super-middleweight titles by defeating Mark Heffron with a third-round knockout. However, his career has also seen defeats, including losses to Kevin Lele Sadjo, Diego Pacheco, Zak Chelli, and Luka Plantic.

Beyond the ring, Cullen has engaged in charitable activities. In 2024, he organized a 12-hour charity darts marathon to raise funds for Diabetes UK, demonstrating his commitment to giving back to the community.

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.