Not since the Kardashians has a family shot to the top of streaming must-watch lists. But a new reality show that pulls back the gold curtain of the world heavyweight boxing champion Tyson Fury has pinched the Calabasas clan’s crown.
Filmed over the course of six months in Morecambe, At Home With The Furys has occupied Netflix’s top spot since it was released last weekend. And no wonder, because this might be trash TV but it’s also solid gold world championship viewing.
The fly-on-the-wall series begins with the multimillionaire sportsman grappling with retirement (aged 34), before the realities of being a full-time father drive him back into the ring, an instinct many parents can no doubt appreciate.
As someone who watched all nine episodes in one greedy gulp, here are the bits that make it worth watching.
It puts Morecambe on the MAP
Forget the sparkling Caribbean or the warm, welcoming shores of Spain; for Fury and his fam, Morecambe is the only place to be. Cue aerial views of the jagged shoreline and wistful panoramas of rural countryside.
"You could go around the world and never find a view like this!" the 6ft 9in man-mountain exclaims, arms outstretched, as the camera pans over the silty, mud-brown low-tide. One quite agrees, though probably not for the same reasons. It’s marginally less depressing to stare at barbed wire.
Someone braver than me Google him an image of Tahiti, stat.
The tornado of kids
Six children run riot in the Fury household, all named with a clear(well... ish) theme: geography, grandeur and Greek gods. You can’t say it’s not original.
Starting from the top, there’s the eldest Venezuela, Prince John James, Prince Tyson II, Valencia, Adonis and Athena. Only the family pet, a rottweiler bequeathed with the mighty moniker Moses, strays slightly off-script. Tyson’s brother Tommy and sister-in-law Molly-Mae, who dip in and out of the series, have given their first-born an equally eyebrow-raising name: Bambi.
According to the boxer’s wife Paris’s Instagram, another Fury is on the way, giving hope there’s still space in the brood for a Hellhathno or Painand.
Star of the show: Adonis Fury
While all the kids enjoy a moment in the spotlight, it’s Adonis, the youngest of the boys, who gleefully steals more than his 15 minutes.
The little boy named after a god cries when handed a battered sausage from the chippy ("I didn’t know that’s what it looked like!"), flicks up a middle finger in family photos and, in one episode, takes an electric razor to his head, skinning off his hair right down the middle; a sort of inverse mohawk. Why? Because he wanted to be like his dad. Ping! There go your heartstrings.
Adonis is the inner child who, were it not for societal norms, we all might unleash to cause merry hell in the world. Next: a spin-off show with him and Prince Louis, we beg you Netflix.
Paris Fury: a force to be reckoned with
Birthing her own five-a-side football team – plus a sub to sit on the bench – and daily reasoning with an unpredictable giant who suffers from severe mood swings would leave most folks needing an extended lie down in a dark room. But not Paris Fury.
The matriarch, who has an Instagram following of 1.2m, commands silence with a single side-eye and can bring the most nuclear of tantrums to an abrupt end without so much, it seems, as ruffling a coiffed blonde curl.
She and her husband aren’t without controversy – she’s pulled her eldest out of formal education, in line with Traveller tradition, and they both have rather dated views on gender. Yet there’s something to admire about her no-nonsense attitude and steadfast dedication to her family. Despite the occasional curse hurled at the lot of them (she is only human).
Tyson Fury: a big softie
Not just a sporting professional but an entertainer who once rocked up to a press conference dressed as Batman, Tyson Fury is as famed for his performance outside the ring as he is in it. The series begins with him entering retirement, doing everyday jobs for which there are no arenas full of cheering crowds: namely taking the bins out and scraping Moses’ excrement off the seafront, while putting up with smart alecs joshing about his few boxing losses.
Though he swears Paris is in charge at home, he’s not averse to a little tidy here and there (cleanliness is the only rule when training with his dad and Tommy), and spiriting off his kids on a spontaneous jolly – even if it is in the family caravan to a plot around the corner from home. Fury is also refreshingly candid about his mental health issues, and opens up about some pretty dark times, though he believes his only salvation is the gym. Literally exercising his demons.
Home interiors: welcome to Fury-core
His and Hers thrones. Gold curtains. Giant crystal chandeliers, with kitchen drawer knobs to match. Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel fresco recreated on the living room ceiling. And Gypsy King merch splattered everywhere, including Tyson’s tailor-made kit.
Put it this way, even if the premises were empty, you’d have little doubt whose house you were standing in. Everything is sparkling clean – when the kids aren’t running amok, that is – but if it’s a question of conventional taste, there’s a total absence of it.
The only redeeming thing? Paris’ wardrobe. She shuns the official merch (who would blame her?), instead opting for stateswomanly-like ensembles: tennis-mum knits, elegant cape dresses and smart midi skirts. Which, really, only serves to highlight the ocean of contrast between them.
Still, it would be boring if we were all the same, wouldn’t it?
