Special Guest Blogger: Greek God Pollux

Son of Zeus, one half of the Dioscuri, an Argonaut, and, if we’re being perfectly honest, a bit of a legend in the pugilistic circles of ancient Greece. It’s not easy being a Greek god, you know. There’s the smiting, the thunder, the endless family dramas… it’s all a bit of a palaver. Most people think it’s all nectar and ambrosia, but let me tell you, the ambrosia plays havoc with one’s digestion.
To understand my story, you must understand my other half, my brother, Castor. The handsome, brilliant, wonderfully mortal one. You see, our mother, the lovely Leda, had a rather eventful evening. First, her husband, Tyndareus. Then, a few hours later, Daddy Dearest himself, Zeus, who had popped in for a chat disguised as a swan. (A swan. Honestly.)
Long story short, Castor and I were born as twins, but he drew the short straw in the divine paternity lottery. I got the immortality, the godly strength, and a natural affinity for perfect hair. He got mortality and a frankly dreadful sense of direction. We were thick as thieves, of course. We did everything together. We learned to ride, to hunt, and most importantly, we learned to throw a punch but not having the usual Godly pedigree, he couldn’t just mix with the Gods in Heaven, who are notoriously snobbish about such things.
Boxing wasn't just a brutal pastime for me. It was an art. A dance. While other chaps were all brawn and aggression, flailing about like they’d stumbled into a hornet’s nest, I was all about technique. Footwork is everything. It’s the difference between a glorious victory and getting a black eye and a swollen nose. I was the original featherweight of the divine world,  quick on my feet, dazzling in my movement, and with a right hook that could, quite literally, knock a god into next week.
Then came the call for the big one. The Quest for the Golden Fleece. Jason, bless his cotton socks, was putting a crew together. The Argo. A lovely little ship, but the onboard catering was an absolute nightmare. I signed up, of course. Castor came too. Someone had to keep an eye on him.
Looking back, it was like the world’s most chaotic stag do. You had Heracles, flexing his muscles and complaining and Orpheus, strumming his lyre and getting all morose and then you had us, the twins, the poster boys. We were the ones who kept the ship’s morale up with a spot of sparring and witty banter.
We had scrapes, of course. The Harpies, a gaggle of dreadful winged women with the table manners of a pig. The Clashing Rocks, which were a navigational nightmare but we got through it because at the end of the day, when things got pear-shaped, they knew who to call. The son of Zeus.
Life, as they say, is a series of matches. You win some, you lose some. And then there’s the one that ends your career. For us, it was a spot of bother over some cattle. A very silly, very tragic squabble with our cousins, Idas and Lynceus. One thing led to another, a few punches were thrown, and well, it all went a bit tits up.
Castor, sweet, mortal Castor, took a fatal blow and in that moment the world just stopped. I was a Greek god, yes, but I was also a twin and half of me had just been KO’d for good.
There I sat there, next to my brother’s body, completely and utterly lost. What’s the point of immortality if you have to spend it alone?
I was having a full-blown divine tantrum on Mount Olympus wailing at Zeus, who was trying to polish a thunderbolt and my father, for all his swan-based transgressions, is a soft touch at heart. He made a deal. A rather good one, I thought. I could share my immortality with Castor. We’d spend one day on Olympus, one day in Hades. Alternating forever.
And so we did. until eventually, Zeus, in another fit of paternal fondness transformed us into a constellation. Gemini.
The Twins but I suppose it could be worse. I’m up here, twinkling away with my brother for eternity and it's a good view.