I swear by God, if you ever want to see society collapsing in real time, you just go to a British stadium fight.
Last night at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium? Pure human zoo. You would think you walked into a big boxing event, but no-welcome to Britain’s biggest freakshow: If you are so refurbished, you think you have Tony Montana in a £ 900 Stone Island jacket that your mother bought on Klarna payments.
Can anyone firstly explain why the British chicks dress like Knockoff prostitutes of a low-budget Netflix documentary every time there is a boxing fight? Like serious – false brown, false lashes, false designer bags and dresses so tight that you can practically see what they had for lunch. Tip-toe around piss and vomit in heels that they clearly cannot penetrate. Is it a kind of national tradition? “Oi Becky, we’re boxing, don’t forget your high costume!”
Secondly, there is literally nothing to see. I was about 40 meters from the ring, and all I had for my problems was a perfect view of the back of some twat’s head that was a pint wandering around as he was in Glastonbury. Could not see a punch. Couldn’t even say which blob eubank was and which one was Benn. It may also have been two menquins on the other side of a parking lot. Seriously, Dazn on a cracked iPad would have been clearer.
And the boys? Oh God, the sons. Every second man was a Kieran or a callum, acting as if he were a scene veteran of Green Street Hooligans, protruding his chest, nose dripping from Coke, looking for an excuse to connect someone over a spilled pint. Absolutely crushed, jump around like exciting toys, try to fight with trays, stewards, each other, just name it. Every second word was ‘bro’ or ‘bruv’, every third word was a limp threat that no one was sober enough to back up. Right bunch of champions. Absolute weapons.
And then the girls again, sorry, but the girls … Christ. I’ve blessed-moreressed crowds outside 3-for-1 kebab shops at 4 am i don’t know who told them dressing like rejected love island extras was a good idea for a boxing event, but here we are-fake tan melting under the stage lights, mascara running, shoes in hand Barefoot on the Sticky (Urin and Vomit) Floor Getting into screaming matches over a dude in a spray-on moschino t-shirt that couldn’t get a punch on its own reflection.
Honestly, the atmosphere was as if you took a football away from a bunch of hooligans, handed them £ 200 cheap Coke and told them that they were the most important event. At one point, I think that a full-scale riot has kicked off almost near the hot dog stand, and honestly, it would have been more entertaining than the actual battles … of which I saw nothing again. Zero. Nada. Just a bunch of messed heads that tap after giant vague screens and pretend to know what the hell is going on.
Stadium fights must end. It’s a scam. You pay hundreds to see nothing, surrounded by drunk, linked clowns playing as soccer hooligans in the 1990s, and you leave with a headache, a stained pair of trainers, and a serious need to reconsider your life choices.
Next time? I stay at home with a bag of chips, a six-pack and a 4K TV.
No piss-piss, no connected Kevins shouting ‘smack’ im, bruv, ‘no regret. Just the battle. Imagine it.
Last updated on 04/28/2025
