I’m looking at the ‘wall of fame’ semi-legal graffiti area
behind the old burned out Carriage works and abandoned Westmoreland House;
Ashley Road’s ever changing backdrop to our ever changing lives.
Last week it was 6 foot songbirds. This week it looks like robots beating each
other to death.
I’ve left my car on Jamaica Street, walked past Pizza King
and Café Kino, (ideological opposites on the spectrum of Croft culture) and now
I am shielding my eyes from the glare of the setting sun in order to look at
the art. I feel like a tourist.
It looks like a still from a Transformers movie, one robot's
head is being punched clean off by the other, leaving a trail of sparks and
torn wires in its wake. Despite losing
his head, he is giving as good as he gets.
Decapitated, his iron fist reaches forward to pull out the battery-based
heart of his assailant. Between them, barely legible and entangled with their
pistons and tubing, are the words, ‘Electric Death KO’
Around the edges of the image is a forest of black tags and other wild-style
scribblings…
Until very recently I thought these were just the artists
names, in-jokes and gang threats maybe. What I didn’t know, despite having
been a journalist here for several years is that there is sometimes a code to
it, a secret language of networked traveller/promoters, a set of calling cards that hints at message-board url names usefull for
the hardworking tax-free economy that paddles hard beneath the surface of Stokes
Croft.
Tonight it points to EDKO.onion the
unusual URL that is typical of the Deep Web.
Tonight it’s fight night. Tickets available only on the kind of websites that
search engines can’t find.
My companion gives the password and the gates are pushed open only just far
enough for she and I to squeeze through. Then a very tall and thin man with circus-level skin damage,
extends his hand towards us, . He holds his skeletal hand in
the air and briefly I am fascinated with how easy it is to see how the muscles
and ligaments connect and manipulate the bones.
I reach into my pocket and place both my
money and my printed ticket in his palm.
He gives me a smile full of yellowing teeth and waves us
through with unnecessary aplomb.
People like that, I think, are always out to try to
frighten you, or make you think that they are something supernatural. But
they’re not, they’re just funny looking guys who’ve made a few poor life choices
and are now running with the aesthetic. These people are like king
snakes, or false-bees wrapped in the trappings of venom but lacking
the bite. It's a universal truth that they have to do their own washing up just like everyone else. To tell the truth, he reminds me of the teenagers that would tell me ghost stories when I was a kid.
I look back at him again. He must be like seven feet tall,
even without the top-hat. Perhaps he’s
wearing stilts I think.
Music is playing, a kind of Mexican style house beat that’s
difficult to pin down. An arena has been roped out. There is a sign that reads
‘peak oil is already here!’ I am wondering what the hell that has to do with
anything when I notice another sign, hand written on one of the caravans that
reads 'Tequilla £2 a shot.'
No other refreshments appear to be on sale, however looking
at the early arrivers, I am sure that if I wanted it, I could find a whole
range of intoxicants and stimulants. I just want a bottle of water but when I
ask for it I get nothing but a laugh and a shot of tequila for my trouble,
served in a plastic cup.
‘Fine, Here you go’ I say… and hand over my two pounds.
I guess I’m kind of hot and bothered by the heat of the day,
nervous to be out of my environment, but I find all of this vaguely juvenile.
Why should everyone in Bristol pretend we are in 'From Dusk till Dawn' It makes me
feel like this whole thing is fake in some way. A kind set up for the camera’s.
I thought this would be less about theatrical posing and
more about the sport and the gambling. Which would be fitting as right now, we
are all stood in the shadow of Westmorland House. Built
in the mid-1960s by the Regional Pools Company, to house a
bingo-style football lottery business. It turned out to be a bad bet and is now abandoned
and has been empty so long that I have never even seen a picture of it in
its heyday. (Nor can I find one online.)
Without walls and glass, some of the sunlight passes all the
way through creating the kind of golden glow that makes even this most obvious
and ugly of human failures seem almost beautiful.
Peak oil is already here… another gentle reminder of impending global apocalypse. Another bad bet.
I need a distraction.
Before the main event, there is always burlesque. Before
that though there is a man with a handful of Ping-Pong balls and a weird wooden
structure that he has clearly built himself.
At first the crowd seems uninterested; I mean, the guy is
clearly a juggler. And the only thing people hate more than jugglers is mimes.
But after about five minutes he actually has our attention.
He is bouncing Ping-Pong
balls in and out of his mouth, spitting
them out and bouncing them off the floor, firing them into the air and catching
the ricochets off the various panels on his jury-rigged prop all with his mouth. It’s fascinating, but
also grotesque. Even the air is dusty and spit from his mouth can been seen falling
between his feet and on his chest. And it’s not the kind you find on the tip of
your tongue… but rather spit from deep in his throat. Thick and visceral.
As the balls fly around in a hypnotising virtual mesh of parabolic
trajectories, I realise the tequila is going to my head. I
reel for a moment, stare at the floor to get my barings, but then suddenly,
without warning everyone is clapping at once.
It’s the end of the floor show…
And time to bring on the girls.
I’m sure that you have seen Burlesque before, that you have
an idea in your head of what it’s about, but this is Bristol, the closest big
city to the Glastonbury festival, A city that’s still pissed off that it now
has to pay for tickets. A town full of
music, that riots when corporate interests threaten to spoil the unbroken line
of thrift shops and record stores that stretch from here to Bishopston
Hardware. A city with an unpoliceable
carnival that’s been voted the best place in the UK to live, more than twice in
a row. A port town, with access to the sea only via a tidal river of mud and a floating
harbour stuffed full of small boats making furtive trips to god knows where…. This
is a somewhat psychedelic city, a city of street art and street performance and
I am reminded of this fact when the first dancer comes out with a giant
papier-mâché eyeball instead of a head.
There are three girls in total, all tattooed and
chauvinistic and interesting for more than the fact that they are going to be naked.
The second does interesting things with a stapler, the last of the three is truly beautiful, she has
an amazing figure, perfectly decorated by a snake tattoo and henna-red hair. Long and
straight it falls down her back like slow water over a stone.
She finishes her act by falling to her knees and leaning
backwards, just as the tips of her hair touch the ground behind her, she pours
honey down the front of her body. The crowd goes crazy and I go buy another
couple of tequilas and touch my wedding ring to my heart to remind myself that I’m
married.
In the time that we have been watching the mouth juggler and
the girls do their thing, the light has changed. It feels cooler now. The
yellow glare of the sun on the dust has been replaced by a ring of oil-barrel braziers.
We have all been here a while and it’s
starting to feel more normal. The sky has transposed from pastel blue into the
border-black indigo of spilt ink on velvet.
There are two truck mounted floodlights shining down on the
centre of the arena.
In the firelight faces flicker and are difficult to focus
on… but closer to the front of the crowd, pressed up
against the rope, expressions are easy to make out. As I push my way back
thought to my companion I can tell that the crowd is restless. We came here to
see a knock out. We came to watch electric death. People are forming themselves into miniature
huddles. Bundles of cash change hands under hunched shoulders. There is a
murmur of soft-spoken activity as people discuss the form, and argue over what
is fact and what is hearsay. Every so often someone breaks away from one of
the groups and head towards the base of one of the flood light trucks where the
bookies and banks and their bodyguards have set up shop
One of the bookies looks oddly out of place, tall and well
built, blond hair and wears designer sports clothing. He looks for all the
world like an oxford rower… or perhaps a personal trainer.
My companion tells me that they call him Bono, She says that he lives up on the
hill, that it’s his money that provides the purse. That he started this whole
thing as a kind of unofficial student society: FightSoc, a group of trustifarian rich-kid students. More money than sense. Bored of rock climbing and the ukulele, they made a
decision to get their thrills by experiencing life outside of the Clifton
elite.
I look at him again, in the shadow of the spotlight. He looks familiar
like maybe I have seen him at the Clifton Lido.
Looking around there
are a few more rower types, wearing identical tracksuits and moving from group
to group collecting bits of paper. More members of FightSoc I assume. They look
to me like Romans soldiers strutting their stuff among the Saxon herd. Here
they are, paying the locals to bash each other senseless and making a profit from
the ensuing confusion. Good training perhaps for a future career in global
politics.
Time seems to be passing slowly in the gap between strippers
and fighters. It’s been a full twenty minutes since the honey incident but it
feels like a lot more. People are starting to wonder if this is really going to
happen or if somebody has chickened out. The murmuring increases…
Then drops to silence when the seven foot man from the gate,
walks confidently into the middle of the arena and announces that Tommy Crib
will indeed fight Angry Mike Farragher -AKA the Kentish Knob, over a series of 3 minute rounds to be decided by
knock out or retirement…
He bows low… and I look at where he bends and it seems to me
like those really are his natural legs. Also I am surprised by how his top-hat
stays on his head like that. It must either be too tight… or glued on or
something.
As he moves up, either it’s a trick of the firelight or he actively
looks right at me. Just long enough to say… you are not meant to be here, and your
presence has been marked.
With all this obvious pageantry I am left to wonder, if this a real thing why does it feel so much
like some arts-council funded interactive theatre event?
Surely if it’s about
bare Knuckle Boxing the opening acts wouldn’t just be strippers and jugglers but
simply more bare-knuckle boxing.
Things are starting to take on a disturbing unworldly
quality for me. This may just be the effect of the
tequila. But as the Top-Hat circles the ring… goading the crowd… I feel like I am starting to believe in his ghost
stories. Right now I am less than a mile from my
house, wrapped up in magic, twenty
feet from a street I basically grew up on, and I have no idea where I am.
The first of the fighters comes out of his trailer to
thunderous applause. He wears a white
sleeveless vest, black shoes, that look like penny loafers, with tall white socks, and what look like… knee britches?
They are held up by a cloth chord that ties
at the back. I’m glad he doesn’t have an eyeball for a head but I’m still pretty
confused. This looks like period costume, it looks like Victorian underwear. I console myself with the rationale that he if
goes by the name of Tommy Crib, surely a homage to Bristol’s famous Tom Crib, (after
whom the Crib’s causeway shopping centre isn’t actually named… Though a lot of
people think it is) then the clothes must be part of the act.
Angry Mike Farrager, also seems weirdly dressed. Black leather boxing boots, tight blue
spandex trousers and a red waist sash, It reads ‘TKK=KO’ surrounded by stars
and stripes. It appears that the top-hat giant will act as referee, he makes
the men shake hands. Both their hands are taped but not gloved.
This dress code, isn’t totally outlandish. Bare Knuckle boxing isn’t
really like regular boxing. The modern version mostly came out of MMA cage fighting,
which has some of the characterisation of pro-wrestling. It’s also not as
brutal as you might expect. It tends to
be a much cagier affair than the Queensbury rules. Smashed and broken bones in
the hand end more fights than glass jaws. It happens when over excited fighters swing too
hard and connect with a bony forehead instead of a nose.
As a result, I am reliably informed, to avoid being hoist on their own petard fighters tend to go
for body shots more often. They go for
the face mostly to distract and unnerve their opponent, unless of course they
are absolutely sure they can connect with something vulnerable..
This is what I have read.
During my extensive research on Wikipedia.
The Top-Hat is happy that both men are fully aware of the
rules and backs away.
Then the bell rings.
The first punch of the fight is a hard Jab, direct to Tommy
Cribs nose. It’s only as the fist connects that the reality of what I have come
along to see starts to dawn on me.
With an anti-climactic slapping sound and a brief spray of
scarlet onto a pure-white sleeveless-vest, for all the smoke and mirrors and
shots of tequila it suddenly looks like two drunk men punching each other, held up
and caged by a baying, animal crowd.
Unused to real violence and trauma as I am, when I see
the red on his t-shirt it is as if time stops.
At first, at home… when planning this article, the idea was exciting and dangerous, something cool to go and do and then write about, a deregulated off-the-grid break from our overly surveyed Google-cop world. This was a soiled nappy as yet undiscovered by the nanny state. Its just that now that I’m here, the stench of it has become all too evident.
I find myself completely mentally unprepared for even a single punch in the face by the supposedly desensitising beheadings of game of thrones.
The fight swings in my direction and the crowd moves away
from the fighters as they brush against the rope, but I cannot move far for the rush of
people and then suddenly there they are, right up close, blood dripping from Tommy Crib’s nose,
just a foot or two from my own.
‘I’d like to leave,’ I shout to my companion, but she doesn’t
hear me, there is a lot of yelling and shouting going on… men and even a few women are pumping their
fists in the air, waving money like they are a cliché of evil in some dark cartoon.
The soon to be donkeys from Pinochio.
‘I don’t want to be here anymore.’ I say a little louder as
the crown surges forward again when the brawl tumbles away to the other side of
the arena. I feel slightly nauseous, wave tossed and seasick as I am pushed forward and have to hold onto
the barrier, suffering some slight rope burn just trying to stay upright. And then just as I think
I’m going to embarrass myself by throwing up, it’s over… end of round one.
The girl with the Henna-Red hair walks around holding a card
saying 1. She is wearing a branded T-shirt now:
'EDKO.Onion'
What's her motivation for being here I wonder?
Mostly I just really want to leave. I'm feeling the start of a panic-attack coming on, but I’m
hemmed in by the press of people behind me and the violence ahead. People surround me, who just a few moments I thought I was one of..
now seem completely alien to me.
Please… someone
remind me again why we pushed to the front? I start to turn around with a plan
to make a quiet exit when my Companion grabs my shirt. ‘No, she says… you stay.’
I don’t understand…. ‘You have a brief to fill' she says, 'Your here to cover something, not to enjoy
yourself’ and then I remember that I only found out about this thing in the first place
because my companion wanted it publicised. She doesn’t look very happy about how
pale I look.
Trapped, but trying to keep a brave face. I steel myself for
round two.
If the first round belonged to The Kentish Knob, this one is
all Tommy. He comes out looking for revenge. During the interval they have
shoved some tissue in his nose, but I notice it fly out with the exertion as he
punches hard into Angry Mikes ribs. Presumably making him even angrier. Mike
retaliates, swings and misses… Tommy connects again. The two men end up clutching
each other and are separated by the Top-Hat. The rest of the round is spent
circling with the occasional exploratory jab.
The next few rounds are very similar. Lots of energy at the
start, followed a build up of lactic acid and tiredness, no-one really
looking like getting close to a knock out.
I am told by my companion, who I am starting to view as a
slightly sinister person, that the only way the fight ends is through knock
out. This could go on for hours. Which is why there were no support fights.
Rather
than rising tension as I had expected of an extended brawl, the excitement
actually seems to dwindle. As the rounds go on, the crowd starts to thin out. In round ten people expect a knock-out blow to at any
minute, in round twenty it all starts to feel a little samey.
By round thirty, they
have been fighting for more than three hours, drinking nothing but shots of
tequila.
It is less of fight by now and more a flailing of arms at
one another in the hope of connecting. Both men look dead, lurching like zombies and
bleeding from hands and face. I do eventually throw up. The man in the top-hat laughs, as
does the red-headed dancer as she walks the ring between the rounds. My companion doesn't look pleased.
Eventually in round forty three, Tommy Crib, the local boy, falls to
the ground and doesn’t get up, I don’t
remember if it was even preceded by a punch. Whatever happed before he fell, Angry Mike Farrager has just enough energy
left to hold one hand in the air and celebrate his glorious victory.
It is one in the morning.
‘Are you happy now?’ Said my companion…
‘I’ll write this up,’ I said…'but I don’t think anyone will
publish it, people don’t really want to see something like this.'
‘You did’
I nod. I did. I was there. A pale face in the crowd, a
nauseous accidental-traveller on a swelling tide of bloodlust and rage.
Finally I'm allowed to leave.
We push through the gate back onto Ashley Road and I look up
towards the moon and feel the crushing weight of celestial disapproval. Not only
was I the moth drawn towards the false light of a dangerous flame, but when I
got there I found that I did not have what it takes not to get burned.
I have failed on two counts. Not smart enough to stay away,
not stupid enough to enjoy the spectacle. Caught between two camps, I can only
hang my head and walk slowly too my car.
On my way I pause between ‘Slix Burger’ and ‘The Croft’,
shake my head and carry on walking, first past ‘The Museum of Stokes Croft’ , a
highbrow hipster shrine to the urban experience, and then past the back
entrance to the ‘The Massage Club', which I have known since I was 11 was a
front for a brothel.
I don't stop. I walk on. All the way back to my car and drive home to my
luxury flat in Sea Mills, where stuff like this just doesn’t happen.