The bar was full of goblin men. Rotund, tort, goblins and gargoyles, dripping in oil and leather. They said little and stared at the box on the wall. They were transfixed on the boxers. A few wriggled their bums in their seats when the action intensified. They were living it with them. They escaped into the boxer’s gloves, and imagined and glorified. Every blow, every bead, every near miss was theirs to escape into. Their drinks covered the tables, all had at least double parked, some tripled or quadrupled. The main event couldn’t come second to alcoholism, no, not today. They had planned ahead. The drinks sat worried and waiting for the next to disappear. The men deserved this. They’d have to be somewhere else tomorrow or the next day so tonight should be spent away from their wives and loved ones, on the bar stools, staring up at the light.
I had my hands cupped around my eyebrows, looking through the pubs frosted glass. I couldn’t abide the waste. I walked in.
‘What the fuck are you bastards doing in here?!’
Blank back. No one turned to the lunatic. Words could be found anywhere; the main event was far rarer. I got in the way of the screen, standing on a barstool, I began my address.
‘Look at you fools! Fat and frayed! Why are you all so infatuated by those at the opposite end of the scale? You’re impressed because sport, for you people, is an inhuman activity. You can’t interact with it or imagine taking part! You’ve drunk yourselves out of your own species and now you’re only able to watch it fight on screens. LOOK OUT THE WINDOW! WHY DON’T YOU LOOK OUT THE WINDOW?! Surely the high street will fascinate you equally, normal society must hold an appeal. Be as unattainable?!’
That was as far as it got. A man with a cannonball head and folded body pulled the stool from underneath my feet. Clearly inspired by the violence on the screen, he let two lefts bludgeon my ribs before he gave the softer part of my face some trauma. His heroism inspired another who had clearly been watching the boxers less closely. This man swung two good toefuls into my stomach. I was winded and unable to express my bemusement. Instead I just lay on my side below the action, watching them calm down and settle into the violence.
The match ended and everyone began to discuss what wouldn’t matter in a few weeks. Within half an hour the place was empty and Tracey pulled me up off my back.
‘Come on Steve, times time. You need to be getting off now.’
‘Yeah, I know Trace, I know.’
‘You shouldn’t wind them up. They’re good, honest workers. That’s all. They can’t be told what to do all the time. It sends a man mad.’
‘They’ll listen eventually. When the doctor tells them.’
I pulled myself up on one of the round wooden tables and held my ribs together as I left. I was back on the street and so were they. Feeding their hungry livers. The old men outside the pasty shop and the young men by the kebab stand. All drunk, all talking, all forgetting, all inciting the Gods. They had worked hard for this feeling, of course they had. According to who?
Tomorrow's Chip Paper 