Putrid Modern Hell #32

by HST UK on July 20, 2012

Punch Drunk Love

After four consecutive days of late morning lie-ins I thought it best to write about what happened last weekend. My eyes are half closed; it might be the pollen, nagging my allergies, making my eyes crust a little in the corners. My head feels like it is engulfed in a force field that protects the shell from the bustle of the outside world. I eat breakfast in my pants, spilling yoghurt on my belly as I overload the spoon with peachy goodness.

I can’t relax. For some reason I panic when nothing is happening. I work in two gears, first and fifth, and if I meander for too long in first then I begin to wobble, my mind begins to parrot nonsense, and when it talks it tells me bad things I don’t really want to hear. Might be stress, might be agitation. I feel nervy. Attempting to stay congruent, living in the moment, it becomes difficult, impossible even to concentrate. My morose mental mutterings are interrupted by shouting outside.

Two people are arguing in the middle of the street. I look out of the window voyeuristically, witnessed the creak, snap and the break-up of a relationship, as a golden hay haired feisty vixen punts a fey tall twig man in the shins, she slaps him to follow the initial humiliation, gets into a green Mazda and drives off. The man stands for a while, stunned, bent forwards slightly. He seems to want sympathy, but half of the street has gone to work, the other are watching this drama unfold.

Today’s breakfast will consist of a plateful of Jaffa cakes and a bottle of Stella Pear Cidre. I think Cidre is French for cider, and not the result of a dyslexic spelling mistake.

On Saturday I coincided a night out with a chance to catch the most anticipated heavyweight boxing fight of the year. David Haye had come out of retirement to fight the brash bad boy of British boxing Dereck Chisora. The fight was resulted from a chaotic brawl as both men brought the sport of boxing into disrepute by scuffling in a post-fight press conference held in Munich. Haye had attended the fight in an attempt to lobby for a fight with Vitali Klitschko. Chisora who had moments before the scuffle lost a brave decision to Vitali interpreted Haye’s presence as a sign of disrespect. The brawl was bizarre as Haye appeared to hit Chisora with a glass bottle, and camera tripods from nearby photographers were used as foreign objects. The whole thing almost seemed stage, like something from an episode of WWE Raw.

Since Haye was without a boxing licence after retiring and Chisora for his part in the press conference scuffle and his general conduct around his fight with Vitali received a long term ban, it seemed unlikely that a fight could be staged between the pair, to settle the beef once and for all. The proposed fight remained unsanctioned until promoter Frank Warren approached the Luxembourg Boxing Board of Control, and unsurprisingly this little organization granted both Haye and Chisora boxing licences. The fight was to be staged at West Ham’s Upton Park stadium, and when tickets went on sale, thirty thousand people brought into the hype. Boxing fans, pundits and social commentators spoke out against the spectacle. Why should two men benefit from behaving like thugs?

I had gone along to Delaney’s to meet up with some old college friends, and to be honest I wasn’t keen on meeting up with these people after last time when jacked up on all kinds of spirits I made a fool of myself in front of them. I remember trying to make an impression on a group of three girls that were sat on the table adjacent to us when we frequented a cocktail bar what used to be known as ‘Old Orleans’. I was so drunk that I didn’t pay attention to what it was now called. Having drank so much I stared animatedly at the prettiest brunette of the trio, attempting to communicate with her telepathically; as I did this I smiled a rainbow beam of goodwill. Sadly, this freaked the girls out somewhat, enough for them to challenge my friendliness, and accuse me of creeping them out. I laughed at this, and this freaked them out further, so much so that they left the bar in disgust. I was reminded by these events in crystal clear fashion by one of the girls who witnessed this in a completely sober state. I could not doubt or question her testimony.

Knowing Delaney’s were showing the Haye vs. Chisora fight allowed me to find the courage to meet up once again with this group of old friends, and endure their ribbing. Also in attendance was a lady from work. Now, given my track record with women from work, chaos was bound to ensue. I tend to avoid crossing the streams, to not allow my work life and my social life to meet, because I know that after a few drinks I am fearless, reckless and dangerous. Things are said that shouldn’t be said. I generally act like a complete twat. Previous nights out with women from work have led to numerous embarrassments. I care not to mention these instances in any detail.

After an hour, and three Budweiser’s, I had joked around with my friends, and their friends who were strangers to me. I worked the room, leaving the lady from work until last. She wanted to talk about work, and I obliged, joking a little about my esteemed colleagues, but it wasn’t until I walked her to the bar that we got to talk. I listened intently as she told me about her interests and passions in life, and we clicked. I looked around at one of the big screens, and the fight was about to start. Dozens of men clad in chequered shirts, with shitty tribal tattoos and shaven heads were going mental. “Smash ‘im up David!”, “Fuck him up!”

I had to make a decision, continue listening to the lady, or watch the fight. I missed the first two rounds, as she waffled on. God damn it… I got impatient, and glanced up to see that Chisora had been pushing forward aggressively, troubling Haye. Thankfully, the barmaid served us, and I precariously carried five drinks over to our table. I then turned, and watched the fight ignoring the presence of the lady from work. Haye finished Chisora in the fifth round, flattening his foe with a great left-right combo. Chisora rose briefly afterwards, but he was done, and Haye mercifully despatched him to the canvas one more time.

The pub went mental, men were punching the air, and there was a real sense of euphoria. Justice had been done. David Haye redeemed himself. I returned to the table, to the old friends, and the lady from work. What now? It was time to leave the pub, to escape the macho bravado that was bubbling, and likely to culminate in a few fights before last orders. The girls in our group wanted cocktails. I also wanted to drink, and knew that I would be playing with fire as the night wore on.


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