7/23/2022 1 Comment A Night at The BoxingSitting in the bath an hour and a half before doors open to my evening's entertainment: a bunch of builders, accountants and chavs beating the shit out of each other for a good cause. I'm still hungover from last nights lonesome shenanigans in the blues bar in Soho, followed by drinking, singing and dancing by Canary Wharf docks to watch the sunrise with my cousins at 5:30 in the morning. I have a habit of getting mangled the night before important events. I'm not sure whether it's the anticipation or just downright impatience, but more often than not I'll have something planned months ahead of time. Come to the day before and I always, without fail, get far too drunk, making the actual event I'm going to a nightmare of tired eyes, regretfully glugged beer and inevitably, a bag. The event in question tonight? UWCB - Ultra White-Collar Boxing. It's a fairly odd premise if you ask me. Essentially you sign up to raise a certain amount of money for Cancer Research UK, and in return, you get 8 weeks of free training in which Clifton Mitchell gets you in supposedly the best shape of your life, and at the end of it you have the chance to knock 7 bells out of someone that is probably twice your size. I was about to make a sarcastic joke about the trainer being some middle-aged bloke named Clive with more belly than box, but I looked at Clifton Mitchell's boxing record and he has a fairly impressive streak of 18 wins (16 KOs) and 2 losses (2 KOs). Granted he boxed back in the 90s, but I'm keen to see how his training transpires across the evening. As you can tell, I am taking this way too seriously. Anyway. The importance of the event? A good friend of mine from back in school has signed up and I told him I'd go a while back. He was a good buddy of mine back in the day, but I haven't seen the guy in about 10 years. Essentially the extent of our friendship was that we used to smoke weed and pretend we were hard together when we were kids. Charlie's a good lad. We actually had a scrap once when we were 14 but that's a different story. I definitely wouldn't go toe to toe with him now after his 8 weeks with Cold Hard Clifton. Regardless, I love a bit of boxing and it was 35 quid. Any excuse for a laugh. Panic, I can't find my tickets on my phone. What have I done with the bastard thing? Hunting in my mailbox and I find them in my junk. Not my pants, the spam folder. A breath of relief. Hopefully that isn't a sign of the quality of the evening. Of course, I am going on my own. Slight feelings of apprehension and a dashing of nervous but nothing too bad. Checking the dress code on the email delivers this scathing instruction: Now I have no idea what a scruff is, I just hope that whatever I select from my lavishly populated collection of one suit isn't deemed as one. I'm not going to lie, I love an excuse to dress up. Tonight I'm throwing down the tie dye and chakra beads and donning a blue checked three piece suit and a pair of tan double-strap monk shoes. They're a bit scuffed but hopefully it's dark and no-one will notice. TK Maxx to the rescue once again. Launching myself out of the bath like a drowning meerkat, a renewed sense of excitement washes over me at the thought of the night. I slap myself square across the face to sharpen up and head to get ready. I'm probably going to be late. T-Minus 1 Hour Luckily I squeezed into my suit trousers. Lockdown and working from home hasn't been kind in the slightest. I imagine there will be plenty of deep breaths and buttons undone tonight. I'm very much still hungover from the night before, but we've committed now haven't we dear reader? You're in this with me, so I'm not quite as lonesome as I could be. I've resorted to necking a Budweiser and shovelling down a cream cheese bagel which has made me feel somewhat more human. I'm actually watching Tyson Fury (FYI - Heavyweight Champ) replays to get me hyped up and in the mood for a bit of boxing. I attended Tyson's most recent bout in Wembley Stadium - the biggest match in British history. Of course tonight will be a far cry from Wembley, but I'm looking forward to it. I have to leave in 10 minutes and I still haven't done my hair. T-Minus 40 Minutes I step out into the blazing sunshine and soaring temperature of 26 degrees C (for you Asian/American/Australian/Practically everywhere else readers, this is unbelievably hot for the UK), and head for the train. Walking the 3 minutes from my house to the station was unbearable. For some strange reason I decided that a full three piece suit was a good idea. Why? Fashion darling, that's why. Remember when I told you that I'm odd? Yeah this is why. It's 26 degrees C and I'm in a fucking three piece suit. However, I look amazing, I feel great and I'm ready to rumble. The very day for which I required it most, my can of cheap Aldi anti-perspirant decided to pack up and let out only a feeble puff of anticlimactic mist, far too quick and pathetic to have been caught by either one of my two armpits. On top of that, I forgot to put on some cologne. But we're not going to let it ruin the vibe! I raided the fridge before I left and took a couple of beers for the journey. Already, I'm feeling more perked up and the AC on the train is oh-so-glorious. I've got a 12 minute walk from the station to the leisure centre (I know, leisure centre) and I need to buy fags. I'm going to the boxing and so I need to play the part. Really, I need a nice big cigar and a round, red, laughing face, but I'll make do. You know sometimes I really sit back and have to laugh at myself. It's a Saturday afternoon, blazing sunshine, and I'm wearing a three piece suit to a fucking leisure centre. Little Jimmy will be rocking up in his Speedos for his weekly lesson and thinking I'm about to subpoena his dad. There's this adorable couple passed out on the seats opposite me, clinging onto each other like a pair of sea otters. Love that for them. Things like that make me smile, they're sweet. I hope they name their child after me. Off the train, fags secured, I go off in search of Staines leisure centre. Yeah you heard me. Staines. The birthplace of Ali G and home of Thorpe Park. Come to think of it, I lived close to here for many years and never actually came to explore properly. The road I'm walking down is actually quite pretty and I'm really looking forward to the Glitz and Glamour of the local leisure centre. I've got to say, I haven't seen a single person around wearing a suit. I get the whole thing of always be the best dressed in a room but if I'm the only one wearing a bloody suit and everyone else is walking around in trackies and T-shirts I think I might stick out a wee bit. I hadn't thought about this but I hope there's beer. Do they serve beer in the leisure centres of England? Some might say it's not particularly healthy, but I could drink a beer quite leisurely if I wanted to. I see men in ties in the distance. Thank god for that. I rock up to the front doors, safely reassured that I'm not the only one dressed to impress. However I have gone a bit further with the vest, and so the 'always dress one step above everyone else' rule has worked quite nicely in my favour. Not that I have anyone here to impress, save a few mums and the odd pissed up uncle. As you'll notice this is the blue team. My guy is in red. Unfortunately I was too late for his ring walk. I dip out the back for another fag before the boxing kicks off and there's two of the boxers having a last minute smoke. Now this is my kind of boxing. I go off in search of drinks. I find them in the form of a drinks token system. Why does everywhere do this now? There was a similar system in place at the Thermal Baths Rave in Budapest. I wonder if it's to stop people walking off with drinks, but they could easily take payment first? To me it seems like an unnecessary extra step that offers negative amounts of convenience. I made a joke to some guy about it being too hot, not the most sociable of occasions judging by the way he looked me up and down and didn't respond. I did see one other muppet in a suit vest though so at least I'm not alone. Oh and I was right, there are kids turning up for swimming lessons, wide eyed and curious as to why a bunch of sweaty old men (and I) are dressed so smartly. I guess they missed the memo about the Speedo ban at boxing events. And the boxing commences. Ladies first. I'm well keen on this. Nicki Minaj Superbass as a walk out track, she's on the blue team but I'm rooting for her all the way. Red comes out swinging and lands a nice clean bang on my girl. Nicki Minaj's super fan responds, but now she's really getting battered by red. Blue quits after about four punches. You know what, I still love her though. I feel for the girl in red, she really came out swinging and deserved a longer fight. Second fight after 2 minutes, they're really not fucking about. The blue girl's walk out track was much scarier; some kind of deep menacing hip hop about stabbing your mum in a Sainsbury's car park. Or something like that. Sorry Charlie, but I'm rooting for blue again. Blue absolutely batters red, she doesn't stand a chance. Though I think I'm standing next to her mum, so no loud cheering for me. After not long at all, my boy is on. Come on Charlie. He's up against a semi-pro with 22 fights under his belt. 22 against Charlie's 0. Round 1 and the man in blue rocks Charlie with a right hook that would kill an elephant. Charlie is wobbling on his feet, but doesn't go down. The ref gives him a standing count and checks his guard before karate chopping the air and resuming the fight. Charlie comes flying out of his corner, offering jabs and body shots with very little answer from the man in blue. The bell rings, and safe to say, Charlie won the round. An excellent come back in a contest balancing on a knife edge. The bell rings and they're at it again. I see a renewed sense of confidence in Charlie, and he demonstrates that with footwork and some fancy hands. Without warning, BAM! Charlie clocks the opposition with a flailing hook that knocks him into the corner. Charlie unleashes an assault not unlike the blitz, shelling the absolute shit out of blue with jab after cross after hook. The referee steps in and a roar erupts from around me. Clearly, I've found myself in the right camp. Charlie returns to his corner as the referee counts the man in blue, he's doubled over and can barely stand. On the 8th count, the ref waves his arms and another roar erupts from me and the other fans, chanting and cheering at Charlie's first ever win. Charlie's hands rocket up into the air and he parades the ring like a true champion. All in all, an actually excellent fight, with my man victorious. Oh how life is sweet. I treat myself to another JD and coke for all of the hard work I put into this fight, and head out into the sun to discuss with another one of my school friends who had rocked up behind me without notice. At this point, I am no longer lonesome, joined in celebration of our mutual friends win. I have lost interest in the boxing for now, I'm too busy laughing and joking and talking old memories with my friend from school. After a while of Charlie not showing, I go off in search of him. I find him in the changing rooms, still pumped and staring as if he was about to kill me. I can see the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the energy from a first-fight-win radiating from his very being. He asks me to look after his stuff while he goes to take a shower and I oblige, sitting down with his kit. I catch myself in the mirror, dressed to the 9s in an otherwise sweaty man-filled room. For a second, I imagine myself in the changing rooms of Madison Square Garden, gearing up my fighter for the night of their life. I don't completely dismiss the idea, you might see me there yet, gorgeous and diplomatic reader. Just think about it, The Lonesome Wanderer, MBE, OBE, CBE, PPE? Boxing magnate and suit-wearing superstar. I snap out of it as Charlie heads towards me, shooing me away so he can get changed. Next these guys look very professional. Scratch that, they're literally too scared to hit each other in the face, bodies only. As you can tell, I've taken up my position as head commentator of these fights. I'm dressed the part so I might as well become it. This isn't the best match but I've paid my money and I want to see some boxing so I'm persevering. Red just looks like he's having a good time to be fair and blue couldn't throw a punch to save his mum from a badger. Bless 'em, it seems that they can't bear to hit each other in the face. Maybe they're mates? Or lovers!? The booze has well and truly settled in now. The fact I only have £150 in my account has gone to the wind. Great to catch up with Charlie, he always was a good mate. And I tell you what, he's really got some potential behind him. He's moving on up to the amateurs now and all power to him. We leave the leisure centre, jump in an Uber and head to "The Irish Club" in Slough. Yup, Slough. Famed for being where The UK Office is set as it is so mind-numbingly boring that it's laughable. As you can tell, this is going to be a wild night. The Irish Club is essentially a working man's club, or has the same vibe at least. Chairs strewn around that remind you of church. The kind of carpet you put down to hide years of beer stains and abuse. However, the clientele are all members of Charlie's family, or otherwise supporters of his newfound boxing career. A few Guinness in me now. Feeling warm. Feeling bubbly. Life is good. Not much happens from here. I spend the night drinking Guinness, laughing, joking and talking shit with those around me. It's a wholesome end to an exciting day. Oh, and I found out why those guys were only hitting each other in the body. Turns out one of them is a bare-knuckle boxer and had all his teeth knocked out. He rocked up without a gumshield as, he reasoned, he had no teeth left to keep in his head. They had a spare, but couldn't get it in his mouth as it had no teeth to hold onto, so they had to have a bodies-only fight. I guess he missed the part where it's called a gumshield, not a toothshield. How fucking bizarre. What have I learned from tonight? What should you, kind and compassionate reader, take away from this? Support others. Even if you haven't seen someone for years, or even know them in the first place. Supporting someone, something, anything, is really good for the soul. Go to your annoying little sisters ballet recital, attend your cousin's open mic comedy set and show up to your best friend's first concert. They'll never forget it, and neither will you.
All the best, The Lonesome Wanderer P.S. Well done for making it to the end! Thank you for taking the time to read the above post, below you can find some quotes and 3 songs that I thought matched the theme of this post nicely. I look forward to hearing your thoughts in the comments below! Quotes:
Song Recommendations:
1 Comment
Heather
7/25/2022 03:09:19 pm
Really enjoyed reading this one!!
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AboutThe Lonesome Wanderer is a blog dedicated to all things solo travel, including the philosophical and introspective aspects involved with being on the road alone. More Posts
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