The maniacs cheer on.

‘Not too long now’

Fear and concern bulge through his pink eyes. He is asking himself if he should stop this carnage.

 I am reduced to battered meat. Nothing anyone does now will make any difference.

My knees hurt from bruises caused by hitting the canvas, My ankles are sore, from twisting. My chest feels like ninety kilo’s.

I fall in and out of the present situation.

But for  whiskey, I would feel a lot worse.

‘He wants me down bad’

There is a saying, that sometimes the mind exceeds physical ability. I say sometimes the mind doesn‘t have a choice but to believe this saying.

In the corner of my eye, I see the my trainer . His eyes are pleading, pleading for this to stop.

A right hook lifts my stunned vision over the crowds. Over the front row hot shots, into the void.

 The shouts echo.

There is not one recognisable face, not even hers.

‘To hell with it! all of it’

The only useful thing my dad ever told me was that at some point, every man must stand for a principle.

Sweat, blood and phlegm depart from my glands. My view tilts like a plate of pie turned vertically. I beckon towards the canvas. Collapse like a building from the impact of a wrecking ball.

‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall’

This is the bit where the slow motion kicks in. You feel like you have all the time in the world.

 It’s like waking up at 5.45 when you have to be up at 6.15 and you think, ill sleep just a little longer.

‘There was a time’

A time, when I was the hottest prospect in underground boxing. I was dubbed  the most promising fighter since the Cinderella man.

That time was a long time ago.

These days, I’m a sloppy, overweight excuse for a prize fighter. You could call me a mercenary boxer. I’m the man if you need one, to get a bashing. Get a bashing and make it look good. Whatever you want as long as you’ve got tall enough money.

Dreams become laughable when your 33 and you have nothing.

The beast on the other hand is really something. The last boxer to step into the ring with him, now suffers from mental dysfunction. No one was stupid enough to fight him again, but me.

Where 8 seconds seems closer to a day , I can hear the echo of my heart beat , it is a feeling similar to having your head underwater. But this no time for dreaming.  In life it’s always easier to always do nothing. The canvas is cold, I’m tired, I need to sleep, I need sleep so bad, I’ll shut my eyes, watch the light diminish and welcome the darkness , slowly, gradually, I’ll just rest my eyes for a bit.

I can feel the sun hitting the window. I can’t tell what day it is or what time. The grubby sheets against my skin suggest I’ve been in this position for a while.  I have a nagging headache.

The sun rays creep through the blinds onto my face. Some of them sit on the wooden table. Some bounce of the TV and bathroom mirror. I get bored by their game quickly.

My brain try’s to re-collect the how and when; I fall short of answers.

 In the same clothes from last night, the bed lines play catch as I begin to get up.

There someone else in the room.

I try to recollect, nothing comes to mind. She can’t be any different from the rest.

She stands half naked in front of the open fridge mumbling. I make out the writing on the back of her underwear

Gold digger   

                                            ……………………………………

 The feeling of grubby sheets against the skin is unforgettable.

It’s always the same in cheap hotels.

The wallpaper will be extremely dull. Cheap old furniture used to cover cracks in the walls. The lighting will be just as poor.

The TV will have over two hundred channels. A hundred of these channels will be porn.  Foreign porn. You will find it weird as everyone thinks foreigners are weird sexually.

The time will be twelve noon; you will have a nagging headache. I stagger into the bathroom. My face is unfriendly.

I’ve lost time.

I say lost time, because I don’t mean it like I’m late for a meeting. I wake up in hotels, restaurants, trains. I’m used to it now, have a good routine. The hangovers are hard to get rid of though.  

On the way down the staircase I come across a big bellied Indian. He flashes a gold tooth grin. 

The sun is in a good mood.  

Two oriental girls in massive sunglasses are excited. Arab men sit outside smoking.Indians behind their tills click. Beareu de changes, Chinese men on mobile phones.Signboards, tourists in khaki shorts. Curries to go, kebabs to have in. I stop and chat with some hippie girl trying to save Africa

 I jog into the café across the street.

On the queue I check out the behind of the lady in front of me.

My turn,

I walk to the till to place my order, the woman  goes livid

‘Tom! You bastard, you’ve been after them skirts again’