On Saturday evening I had a ticket to watch Aaron get beaten up — sorry, I mean win his boxing match — and I planned to root for his opponent. I had high hopes because his opponents fists would’ve had an effect that overshadowed my own. Aaron is the kind of guy who deserves a punch on the hour, every half-hour, or as required, and this fight was considered by many, or maybe just myself, as his overdue comeuppance.
As a boxing match virgin, and with a pair of new feet for Mountbatten Leisure Centre to welcome, the evening promised to be full of firsts.
It was, sort of.
There is this fact that when two or more people meet in a ring that is often shaped square to beat the living crap out of each other, this is an event equal to if not posher than a posh night out someplace fancy and gilded. It will be a genteel affair, with fine manners, fine clothes, and far more respectable than your commonplace street fight. A boxing match even makes a pub brawl seem uncouth.
For big fights with big names, I know the ‘witnesses’ dress smartly because any clothes ruined with famous fighter blood always frenzies the bidding at auction; a tooth might be found in a pocket, too, and you better hope so because KERCHING! One ruined Jimmy Choo, which unfortunately slipped up in blood and caught an incisor, could pay for a family car, if not several, provided the blood and teeth are from someone with fighter fame. For fights like these, then, it is both profitable and sensible to splash out on designer clothes you hope to ruin.
Big fights tend to be held in big places like wherever that easily dwarfs a leisure centre up the arse crack of the Solent. I’m not saying that Mountbatten is bad but it’s not quite wherever those big fights get held, and it doesn’t lend itself to the riches of crimson profit. It is a leisure centre at the end of the day, with a swimming pool and some fancy amenities. I think, Brittas Empire but modern.
Of course, I should’ve recalled that even the most obliging arse cracks have conditions to meet before entering, but I forgot. It’s been a while. But because I would never go swimming in a suit, and I’d checked their website and found absolutely no mention of boxing, my reasoning for choosing my clothing was sound.
I caused scandal for not wearing a tie and got turfed out for wearing jeans.
I could’ve got changed but I didn’t, I couldn’t be bothered. Dressing up posh to watch folks beat each other seems a little pointless. Okay, being dressed up nice does quell temperament but you’re still gawking at a fight and rooting like in any pub. So it’s got rules but it’s not different — in the ring, you can’t smash a pint on a head, so let me hear a whoop whoop! It’s civilised now because of attire and pomp. Well, I can manage civil and pomp wearing nothing but baubles, so maybe I’m not getting something.
At any rate, Aaron got “demolished”, which I sadly missed — out sparkers after a relentless beating, I gather — sometime during the second round.
I’m no expert, but I could’ve got home, got changed, got back, and still missed him getting punched. Aren’t rounds like a couple of minutes?
My one consolation is that how I missed Aaron sprawled out cold left the all-gendered mutton present with a glimmer of peace and hope to take with them into the New Year.
You see, I was ravishing whilst not abiding by the (unadvertised) dress code — at one point, the jealous whispers got so crazed security had to form a burly barrier. Imagine if I’d returned in my glad rags, and now imagine all those devastated lives so close to Christmas!
In all, missing Aaron lying KO’d is a small price to pay for saving a few hundred Christmases. Besides, mutton-jealousy is just what comes with the territory, especially when you can change lives with the briefest glance.
I’m cursed, I suppose, with this crippling modesty and no way to undermine my beauty.
Cursed, I tell you — bewitched.
On Sunday, I had an invite to Jackie’s for dinner — it was our Christmas dinner because it’s nearly Christmas.
To not get too crude on this matter, if I wasn’t spizzing out one hole then I was spurting out the other. Fortunately, neither orifice thought to eject in unison so at least I wasn’t a shitty-sicky catherine wheel spinning around until you get the picture.
Needless to say, I didn’t go.
Of course, I went but I didn’t go for dinner.
I stayed home.
And so although the 2 things that saw me invited this weekend got changed, I got to save a hundred Christmases and got rewarded with fireworks. Not quite the “Ooo — Aaa” kind expected but nevertheless, in their own way, spectacular.