On Sunday I took H to the London Amateur Boxing Association Junior Finals at York Hall. We got there an hour before the opening bell and were greeted at the front doors by two huge security men, possibly Homo Neanderthalensis, who despite being approached by a father and his six year old son, did not break from their hard-men double act.
'We don't open until 12' grunted the squat, fat rather than muscly, bouncer (apt).
'Oh, okay, no problem. We thought we'd get here nice and early, this is the boy's first boxing match, he's very excited!' I enthused pointing at H, a vain attempt at cross-species communication.
The larger of the two guards stepped forward, a beast of a man(?), seven foot tall with a neck as broad as my waist,
'Yeah, well we don't open 'til 12.' He growled. He was taking no chances with us. He eyed H suspiciously as he reached inside his duffel coat and pulled out his mittens.
I took the cue and I mumbled that we'd be back at twelve. H complained that he was hungry, so we crossed Old Ford Road and spotted a cafe that was teeming with locals. As we crossed the road, the whole cafe stopped and stared at H and I approaching. the locals had sniffed us out before we had taken a step through the door. Perhaps they thought we were 'old bill' and that H was in fact a vertically challenged plain-clothed policeman.
Once we were in and they'd had a chance to check us out properly, they returned to their bubble 'n' squeak and violent talk.
'The facker was completely facking facked off his facking head'. One poet announced to his mate. I took the opportunity to warn H that he may hear some swearing but that it wasn't because people were angry, just that they were confused.
H and I enjoyed a greasy but edible breakfast. We were nearly rumbled when I rejected the waitresses offer of bread or toast. 'No thank you, we're fine'. I smiled. Mortified and unusually offended the waitress exhaled violently, turned, and stomped off. I made a mental note to accept bread when in the 'East End'.
At twelve we went back to York Hall. Slowly the public were being let into the venue. Once inside we approached a pasting table manned by an old man. 'Good morning! One adult and one child please.' I chimed. The man looked at H, shook his head and looked back at me, 'Just you mate, ten (pounds). He again turned to H, 'You gonna say morning then, facking 'ell it's like being in facking church in here!'
York Hall is a famous boxing venue in Bethnal Green, East London, a place known to harbour the desires of the criminal underworld. Where deals are struck between bouts and a fixation with the Krays is compulsory. In fact, listening to some of the conversations going on around us, I can only assume that the Krays had a lot of cars, because where we were sitting most of the audience claimed to have driven for the them!
Despite a shaky start to our York Hall experience, once the boxing began both H and I were enthralled. We watched nine thrilling bouts after which H started losing interest.
On our way out H asked me, 'Is that man right?', I gave H a confused look as I tried to make meaning of his vagueness. H continued, 'Is that really what church is like?'
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