Rant and Dick (and Dave) go Boxing

R & D (and Dave) go boxing

Since the dawn of time Humans have been punching each other, challenging everyone, and sometimes animals, to fight to the death in combat, from the simplicity of escalloping each other with rocks and other crude bludgeoning weapons, to the voyeurism and exuberance of Roman gladiatorial combat, and finally to the modern day, and the sweetest of all sciences, no not chemistry, that’s rubbish, Boxing.
Being a massive fan of boxing we were excited to be going to The Real Fight Clubs Showtime at the Troxy, excited also because the tickets were free, and to be fair, I would probably go to watch the 'Blackbirds having their beaks snapped off with pliers' show at Olympia if it was at no cost to me.

The real fight club is basically an excuse to punch office workers in the face repeatedly, and you can do this without evoking the wrath of some pumped up Human Resources Nazi, losing your job, and eventually having bailiffs take your precious plasma screen, XBOX and collection of specialist porn DVD's. I knew the evening was going to end in tears (or beers) when meeting a Tower Hill, we passed a huge Humvee limo at the lights, the back of this was choc full of excited kids screaming enthusiastically at anyone looking at the monstrous car, Rant got as close to the window as he could and yelled 'Santa Claus is dead', slightly confused another of the kids started shouting Britain’s got Talent, to which I yelled back, it also has the highest count of Paedophiles [Cue, mummy, what’s a paedophile? - Erm, you know Uncle Dave when he has had a drink...] Sitting in the Liberty Bounds and guzzling as much efes as possible (the beer of choice for Turkish Mini Cab Rapists) we were clock watching and had gambled everything on a quick KFC before first bell, going down stairs to some subterranean greasy shit hole only to find out it shut at seven was a new low, since when does a fucking KFC shut before most Libraries, fuck you Colonel Saunders, I'm demoting you, and defecting to the Cottage.

Arriving in Limehouse, you are greeted with that smell, even blind folded you know you are in East London, its more of a sensation than a smell per se, it just says to you, abandon all hope, its how I'd imagine failure would smell, we walked up past a cacophony of sub KFC chicken places, clicking a finger like the fucking Fonz of fast food at one of them, as if to say, I'll be sampling your wares later you chicken frying arse wipe. We arrived at the Troxy and could hear various noises of blokes rubbing their thighs, oohing and aarghing, and muttering things that are simply sub-human, 'get your rat out you slaaag' and 'Oy, I'm glaring at your predators mouth you wank with limbs', you know the sort of stuff you would never say to your girlfriend, unless you wanted to wake up with a mouthful of blanched teste. We couldn’t see the 'Bikini Bull Riding' from the cheap seats, probably a good thing too, no doubt some battered up old ex porn model slag stuck to the bull like some labial limpet with her bingo wings flapping around like a flying squirrel, no thanks.

Tonight promised to bring a touch of Las Vegas to East London (like a touch of fucking diarrhea), this was to be a huge challenge given that the only thing they have in common is that both areas vaguely inhabit the same planet. And what illusion did they magic up to create the Nevada Desert? Nailed a sign up saying, sure enough, Las Vegas, and played some video of Elvis shaking about like Michael J Fox in an earthquake and just put some American random telly on the TV's hanging about the place, a 'BIG BAND' (3 old codgers on various instruments) belted out big band numbers, to which we sang along with the most inappropriate lyrics, Ice Cube, Slipknots, People = shit, and Me so horny, by the 2 live crew. Getting restless, and a bit worried about the thought of paying £4 for a small bottle of pissweiser I hoped that the fighting made up for the cheesier than David Hasselhoff in a bath of primula set up, I didn’t want to see anyone die twitching, but I did want to see a corona of dentistry flying out of someone’s mouth and the following bloody puke running its way down the ring onto the horrified people at ring side, but this was going to be unlikely as the people were wearing head gear, I had hoped for hot wax and glass, like in all Van Damme films, but again, I was disappointed, its standard fare to me, even when I have a wank.

Me and the boys were wolfing down beers and generally heckling and being, what is commonly referred to by by-standers as, cunts. The fighting finally began, and it was clear in most cases who would win, generally when you have a beer gut, you have to do one of two things, know how to distribute your weight to your advantage, or win within 10 seconds, or you find you are a panting blueberry looking waste of space and the younger fitter guy will spend the next 5 minutes and 50 seconds of your life making you feel like that side of beef in Rocky, this was pretty much the case in the first fight and we were treated to our first knock down. We were all surprised to find out that the first fighter was actually the side of beef out of the first Rocky film, its really let itself go, its like biltong now, all leathery, like a fucking holdall. 3 fights in, and several budweii later, I was finding I was having to watch the fight through one eye, because I really was a bit drunk. I was woken up by the sounds of Eye of the tiger and a crazed Turk running in the ring punching the air furiously, on the way in, after seeing him knocked to shit in under a minute, I did wonder that he should maybe have been paired up to fight 'the air' I think they were about the same weight. Rant boomed laughter over to the 30 or so Turks who had paid to watch the absolute shower go down like a $2 whore on welfare (with aids). On any fight night, you always get the cocky cunt who thinks they are Muhammad Ali, feet moving about like an epileptic on a hot plate and being all cocky, we had one who tried to do a jumping, spinning, back flipping reverse forward, reverse slap, and failed, our heckling was even better as his supporters were sitting right in front of us, lucky for us that his name was Joseph Sackofshitcuntface, or we would have been in trouble.

There was also a charity auction, but everyone was being proper tight, no suit is worth £1500, even if its made from Dodo pubes, we were all getting a bit leathered now, apart from Dave, who was, at this point, was still on the aperitif setting and probably could have guzzled on for the rest of the night, his body now oblivious and ignorant to the damage of trying to self pickle.

Tired, drunk, listless, throaty and almost out of heckles I just wanted to sleep, but then something amazing happened, something that only happens once or twice in a life and something to be savoured and retold to the children’s children. A bloke moved across to the balcony and blocked our view, Rant shouted out, "OY You down at the front" - The guy turned around, only for us to all realised he was a downs, he quickly ran off, I cocked my head back, and was beyond laughter and just roared to the Comedy God, that such a bizarre set of events could have happened, we all pissed laughter tears out of our eye cocks, it was a magical moment

We finally left and Rant had to get back to the Pratt Cave (where we record) and left me or Dave flirting with the Chicken and chips places, teasing them all about which one we was going to get our salmonella coated greasy avian from. We sat on the DLR eating like beasts, gorging before the Northern Line (you can eat on there, its just not on) and back home, where unfortunately, my bomb doors opened and I let out a shit blitz, very late at night, fucking chicken comes out faster than I rammed it in. Anyway, you didn’t need to know that.

I fancy having a fight myself, I cant actually fight but I'm freakishly strong, my arms have to be checked by the UN once a year as they are technically a WMD (no, not a wobbling mass of dripping, you cheeky cunt), I only want to fight so I can have a cool boxers name, like John 'The Holoucauster' Smith, or Dave 'Once you pop, you cant stop, did you know there are 90 chips in the tube' Pringle, or Frank 'Cot death' Taylor, anyway, you get the idea....

More Rant and Dick adventures to follow, we don’t see enough of each other socially, we had a right laugh.

R & D