A friend in a boxing ring

My friend Simon entered the arena from the lake of piss that was the toilet and into the eyes of Thursday nights audience.

City boxing can be all the rage it wants to be but once you watch a friend entering into getting his face turned to Plasticine your instinct ignores trend and activates support. Non more in the supportive role is Simons girlfriend Sian, high on weak larger and strong love she is screaming over the 100 bald heads in the audience who are slowly being eroded and emasculated. 

The boxers circle in funny clothes but no one is going to tell these Emperors that, and, bang-bang-BANG the rhythm of pain orchestrates itself over 4 rounds. 

Simon is not tiring, neither is Sian, who-bang, is-bang-bang, going to-bang, win this-BANG we all wonder. Sian is deafenately winning, but Simon wanes and then slowly starts to edge it, shoulders low, guard high, footwork like a friday-nighter till the end. Then, in self declaration, he raises his arms into the air by himself and then once again this time assisted by the judges left arm and verdict. 

Sian grabs him away from the placard girls and thrusts a pint and a kiss upon him. We breath, they kiss, and the cool London air will sooth the now Morphing face of our friend Simon.

Full concentration.

Right hook.

Winning.

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