Those CC regulars unfamiliar with the Noble Art may not have noticed the rise and fall and fall and fall of Audley Harrison. After becoming Olympic Champion at the rather advanced age of 28, Audley turned pro and quickly revealed a prodigious talent for finding lucrative fights against deadbeats. Fights against serious contenders were harder to come by, and the laboured way in which Audley dealt with some of the less-well known opponents suggested that the elite of the world’s boxers were, wisely, putting ambition before easy cash.
Undaunted, Audley let us know that he had Big Hopes, and, as the money from his BBC contract rolled in the rhetoric rolled on, and it was pretty clear, if you listened to Audley labouring to overcome his natural modesty, that he, Audley, was going to become Heavyweight Champion of the World! It was all just a matter of time.....
Sadly, it was never to be. Audley’s been calling out the Klitschkos for so long now you wonder why he doesn’t just pop round with a pizza and deck them in their own front porches. Experienced fightfans might wonder if a man who has been beaten up by Belfast taxi driver Martin Rogan should really suggest a meet with either Vladimir or Vitali, who have both aquired the nasty habit of beating their opponents, opponents even more distinguished than Audley, senseless. Experienced fightfans might further wonder if the reason why Audley doesn’t pop round with the pizza is that he doesn’t fancy instant reincarnation as pepperoni.
So, why, do you ask, have I entitled this thread ‘In Praise of...’? The answer is this. When Audley gets smacked in the head he does it for money. Lots of money. Enough to afford a 13 strong entourage. That’s lots and lots and lots of money. That’s impressive. Me, I got smacked in the head for a Brompton. That's less impressive. This is how it happened....
Your correspondent was having an extremely civilised drink with friends at Browns, on Islington Green. A sort of architectural reunion. We chatted about engagements, holidays, exam results, buying houses, old times, hard times, new times.....and all was well (actually all was extremely well, following D***, originally from Poland, telling us ‘you know, I am a racist, so I would never sleep with a black guy, but, one night, wtf, I thought let’s do it, so I had a lot of vodka, and, I’m telling you girls, you have to try it!’) and then J****** said ‘bike’ and blow me down if some little tyke wasn’t working his way through the 10,000 combinations on my lock. I ran to the bike, he sprang away like a deer, and headed off on to the Green to join his mates.
At this point the sensible person, particularly the sensible person who had been drinking nothing stronger than lemonade, would say ‘phew, my bike is safe’ and return to the civilised conversation around the table. That would be the very most sensible thing to do. Possibly the least most sensible thing to do, the very least most sensible thing to do, would be to go after half a dozen seventeen year olds with a chair. Which is what I did.
Now, I’ve got away with this before. Sometimes overweening confidence can sort of carry the day. Not this time. My recollection of the following events is a little hazy, but I do know I hit the ground, and I did see a foot coming towards my head at quite a pace. There followed a small intermission....
When I came round, in the fragrant arms of the Architectural Concern, having my glasses placed on my nose by Managerial Type of Highbury, I reviewed my strategy, and some shortcomings became apparent. There were six of them and one of me. They were young and very quick. They were probably more experienced fighters than me. Taking a chair in to a fight could easily have rebounded on me. My head hurt.
So, if you’re reading this Audley, do think again about getting in to the ring with David Haye, with or without a chair. He’s told you that he wants to see you leave the ring in a stretcher, and he has the means to do it. He’s younger than you, he’s quicker than you, he’s a much better fighter than you, and he really, really doesn’t like you. You, Audley, are 38 years old. I know that’s a lot younger than 56, but you are going to get your arse kicked good and proper. You’ve got your millions, and I’ve got my Brompton. Let’s call it quits. With you and me bidding goodbye to the Queensbury Rules those pesky Klitschkos can sleep easy in their beds. We’ll know we could have taken them.........
Undaunted, Audley let us know that he had Big Hopes, and, as the money from his BBC contract rolled in the rhetoric rolled on, and it was pretty clear, if you listened to Audley labouring to overcome his natural modesty, that he, Audley, was going to become Heavyweight Champion of the World! It was all just a matter of time.....
Sadly, it was never to be. Audley’s been calling out the Klitschkos for so long now you wonder why he doesn’t just pop round with a pizza and deck them in their own front porches. Experienced fightfans might wonder if a man who has been beaten up by Belfast taxi driver Martin Rogan should really suggest a meet with either Vladimir or Vitali, who have both aquired the nasty habit of beating their opponents, opponents even more distinguished than Audley, senseless. Experienced fightfans might further wonder if the reason why Audley doesn’t pop round with the pizza is that he doesn’t fancy instant reincarnation as pepperoni.
So, why, do you ask, have I entitled this thread ‘In Praise of...’? The answer is this. When Audley gets smacked in the head he does it for money. Lots of money. Enough to afford a 13 strong entourage. That’s lots and lots and lots of money. That’s impressive. Me, I got smacked in the head for a Brompton. That's less impressive. This is how it happened....
Your correspondent was having an extremely civilised drink with friends at Browns, on Islington Green. A sort of architectural reunion. We chatted about engagements, holidays, exam results, buying houses, old times, hard times, new times.....and all was well (actually all was extremely well, following D***, originally from Poland, telling us ‘you know, I am a racist, so I would never sleep with a black guy, but, one night, wtf, I thought let’s do it, so I had a lot of vodka, and, I’m telling you girls, you have to try it!’) and then J****** said ‘bike’ and blow me down if some little tyke wasn’t working his way through the 10,000 combinations on my lock. I ran to the bike, he sprang away like a deer, and headed off on to the Green to join his mates.
At this point the sensible person, particularly the sensible person who had been drinking nothing stronger than lemonade, would say ‘phew, my bike is safe’ and return to the civilised conversation around the table. That would be the very most sensible thing to do. Possibly the least most sensible thing to do, the very least most sensible thing to do, would be to go after half a dozen seventeen year olds with a chair. Which is what I did.
Now, I’ve got away with this before. Sometimes overweening confidence can sort of carry the day. Not this time. My recollection of the following events is a little hazy, but I do know I hit the ground, and I did see a foot coming towards my head at quite a pace. There followed a small intermission....
When I came round, in the fragrant arms of the Architectural Concern, having my glasses placed on my nose by Managerial Type of Highbury, I reviewed my strategy, and some shortcomings became apparent. There were six of them and one of me. They were young and very quick. They were probably more experienced fighters than me. Taking a chair in to a fight could easily have rebounded on me. My head hurt.
So, if you’re reading this Audley, do think again about getting in to the ring with David Haye, with or without a chair. He’s told you that he wants to see you leave the ring in a stretcher, and he has the means to do it. He’s younger than you, he’s quicker than you, he’s a much better fighter than you, and he really, really doesn’t like you. You, Audley, are 38 years old. I know that’s a lot younger than 56, but you are going to get your arse kicked good and proper. You’ve got your millions, and I’ve got my Brompton. Let’s call it quits. With you and me bidding goodbye to the Queensbury Rules those pesky Klitschkos can sleep easy in their beds. We’ll know we could have taken them.........
