To Box Or Not To Box

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Posted by tommyc90 (#46) 340 days ago (Editorial)

As my father James F Murray McElroy often said, ‘Boxing is more than just a sport. It’s an organised activity often in the form of a competition involving one or more participants.’

My name is James F Murray McElroy jr. My middle name F is a traditional Swahili one, meaning ‘man who plays Donkey Kong in his underpants’. You could say boxing runs in my blood. My father was a boxer, my great grandfather, all the males on my father’s side. That a dog could give birth to a human astounds scientists even now.

My childhood was uneventful. By uneventful I of course mean extremely eventful. My father would frequently return home drunk after a fight and abuse my mother, often violently. He would challenge her to scrabble, and then use words which didn’t exist, until my mother could take it no more, at which point she would call the police. Yes, they say 90% of all deaths are a result of domestic violence. By they I am referring to our neighbours, who not only set fire to their own cat but also ate a suspicious amount of bean curd.

I suppose my future was already decided for me, and it came as no surprise when I found myself in a ring for my first professional fight. My opponent was a hairy Chinese midget who had been told his family would be compressed into rice if he did not win. I knocked him down in the third round. Fortunately he didn’t have far to travel.

For a time boxing was paying the bills, but I knew one loss would knock me from my sweaty pedestal and bring me crashing to earth like an overweight asteroid. I needed something to fall back on, and my mother was becoming too frail. So, I decided to take up a course in fight-fixing. It passed the time, and meant I didn’t have to worry about losing. I would make money whatever happened.

My life changed dramatically in my 25th year, when I met Stacey. Blonde, brunette and a red-head, curiously all at the same time, with a luscious pair of twin lips that occasionally bickered but had usually made up by Christmas time, and a body that would reduce the Pope to a slobbering man-slave, she was a creature of unparalleled beauty. In addition, she had an unquenchable desire for social and domestic subservience, and so I was understandably hooked, like an unfortunate scuba diver who had forgotten to cover up his massively swollen genitals.

I wanted to marry her as soon as possible, but unfortunately her domineering parents were proving to be a difficult obstacle. They would accompany us at all times, which began to get very embarrassing, especially when they started to make comments about my girth during lovemaking. I pushed for marriage, and in November of that year we were wed, at a picturesque castle in Burkina Faso. As was the local custom, Stacey and I donned leather thongs and diving helmets for the vows. We then each and seperately made love to a sedated hyena, before having our toenails ripped off and our buttocks skinned. Our parents watched with great pleasure, and all agreed it was a wonderful service. Our love had been cemented.

6 months later I was living alone in a tiny apartment in Reading, with my strepsil addiction the only thing I had to ease the pain of our break up. Actually, we had seperated on our wedding day, when Stacey had taken a strange liking to her sedated hyena. Despite my broken heart, I wish them all the best, and I continue to send an allowance of money to her for sedatives. I hope that hyena never wakes up.

Back into boxing was really the only way I could go. My record before my comeback fight stood at 25-5-1. That’s 25 wins, 5 by knockout, 1 loss. Not bad considering I'd only been in three fights. My promoter could really work some magic. Grayson Presley was his name. He could arrange any fight the public wanted to see. It was said he even managed to arrange a fight between Mohammed Ali and Ali's own mother in 1978. Would have happened too if Ali's mother had weighed in, unfortunately she dropped the two watermelons she was hiding under her armpits.

Presley called my comeback 'Phoenix rises from the ashes!' I was due to fight in three months at the Las Vegas Hilton. My training routine was upped swiftly, becoming extremely intense and wearing. I would wake up in the morning at 3:30 a.m, before proceeding to run for an hour until my ears started to bleed, then have breakfast consisting of half a small pine tree, the legs of a rhinoceros and half a litre of sand. Having digested that low calorie meal I would lift weights and run alternately non-stop for twenty five hours, eventually going to sleep a full 2 and a half hours after I was due to wake up. I repeated this 8 days a week. By the time of my fight I was shorter by two inches and my stomach was harder than a slab of cement. I was ready.

Fortunately the same could not be said for my opponent, whose identity thanks to my promoters skilled dealings was kept secret until just before the fight. The real reason for this was that no opponent had been chosen yet. The Kazakhstani fighter Kuzkov Kuribev was rung twenty minutes before the fight was scheduled to start, and promised 3 cows and half a chicken if he would appear. He did.

In the case of Kuzkov Kuribev, the phrase 'washed-up' could not have been put to better use if one saw 3 blue whales, the Mary Celeste, and the Great Barrier Reef of Australia lying on Brighton beach. An alcoholic, drug-addicted waster, I felt so confident of winning the fight I resolved to bet my house, my dog and one third of my soul on me winning by knockout. As we lined up for the weigh-in outside the ring, Kuribev stood looking at his gloves in amazement, as if only noticing them properly for the first time, and exclaimed 'woaaah... red is like sooo deep man... its the colour... like its like all the colours man... of the rainbow or some shit'. I told him I would put my fist so far down his throat, he'd be shitting fingernails for a week. It wasn't my best, but on the spur of the moment it gave me the required media exposure. I then elaborated that I would run over his mother with a tractor, before adding that when I was through with him he'd get less pussy than the elephant man when he forgot to use deodorant.

As it turns out, Kuribev put up quite a good fight. As I predicted, I knocked him out in the third round, but not before he caught me a few decent blows. Ironically I caught myself a few decent blows from my promoters wife after the fight. Life was going swimmingly.

Of course, as they say, when life is going swimmingly your armbands explode. Or perhaps they don’t but the point I'm trying to make is that with my new found success, came pitfalls. When I reached 30, the year was 1985 and I was at the peak of my career. Following the Kuribev fight, I knocked out three 'journeymen' fighters and was proclaimed 'Super middle feather middle light super-light' champion of the world, an obscure title conjured up by my promoter, in the hope no else would bother competing for it. He was right. With my new found success came fame and wealth however, and with these came the vices most readily associated, namely drugs and women. These were to bring about my eventual demise.

With my increased drug-taking and woman-taking, my adherence to my strict training schedule rapidly decreased. My trainer would frequently turn up at my house to get me ready for a session, only to find me naked on all fours on the living room carpet, with two Cambodian midget prostitutes injecting heroin into my anus whilst I barked like a dog. Indeed, whilst not wanting to shift ultimate responsibility, I still lay some blame for my downfall on the astounding flexibility and virility of Cambodian midget prostitutes.

I was rapidly falling by the wayside. I would frequently be seen falling out of nightclubs at 3am, with a page 3 model on my arm and vomit in my hair. I was making more money than ever before with lucrative endorsement deals, advertising everything from fast food (‘try Wimpy’s new cheesy chicken burger - it’s a knockout!’) to washing up liquid (‘try Cleanalot’s new super advanced liquid solution - it’s a knockout!’), even travel destinations (‘visit the quaint seaside town of Grimsby this autumn - it’s a knockout!’), but my increased wealth was having a detrimental effect on my health, and ultimately my boxing career.

Sensing my inevitable demise, my promoter released several statements to the press about my impending retirement, citing my ‘disillusionment with the glamour’ of boxing, and that I had grown bored of the ‘lack of competition’ in my division. In truth, at that stage of my career, almost any of the ‘competition’ would have beaten me quite easily. We both knew it and so my final fight was arranged, an expensive send-off which would hopefully crown my place in boxing history, amongst other highly contentious world champions.

It was to be a fascinating contest. In what was billed (optimistically) as ‘the best fight since the beginning of time’, I was to fight Derrick Diggleby, an up and coming American fighter. A devoutly Amish man, Diggleby had been so deprived of proper training equipment he had been forced to practise his boxing fighting bulls on his father’s farm. Due to this unforgiving training regimen he had developed extraordinarily quick feet, as well as rock hard buttocks. Indeed, these were identified as Diggleby’s main strengths.

The fight itself was a lavish affair. Held at Madison Square Gardens, the entry fee was $3000, and inside, guests were treated with free champagne and a foot massage before the fight. The pre-match entertainment included a man singing ‘Figaro’ whilst balancing an elephant on his head, and a complete reconstruction of the JFK assassination, with monkeys instead of humans.

Perhaps due to the large entry fee, the audience numbered only five people, but the atmosphere still felt electric as we stepped into the ring. This may have been due to the electrified fence which had been brought in to protect the crowd from the monkeys, as well as the frayed wires which were scattered around the arena, chewed by the monkeys when they had escaped and run amok.

In the end I lost the fight with considerable ease, picked up my pay check, and retired to Burkina Faso, opening a hyena-shooting reserve, in the hope of winning Stacey back by killing off the competition. I’m still trying. The End.

.. (Editorial)

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To Box Or Not To Box

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