i always used to think that i was a fancy thinker. i’ve read smarty pants authors and know that noam chomsky is a dead, dullidy dullard to listen to. theory of literature excites me. if Group A identified as intellectual snobbery and Group B as the witless, brainless masses, i would slot myself in neatly with Group A.
things started changing a while back. i got tired of listening to smart people take themselves so terribly seriously and i got tired of writing seriously serious articles about serious sad stuff. my choice of inflight magazine went from TIME to the YOU bible.
but i was still not the hoi polloi, darling.
until i went to my first fight night.
i found myself thrilled by the buzz, and thoroughly engaged by the scene unfolding in the ring. i want the meted aggression, am hungry for it, the skilful execution of violence, the fall of a weaker subject. and i want it in high definition, loud music, crowds cheering and that surge of baying bloodlust that has everyone on their feet and calling for more, harder, more when force hits a target perfectly.
I want your soul – or your blood. whichever is fitting to the stage
if there are two things that will lift my spirits instantly, it’s theatre and a combat sport. i am the consummate spectator. i suspend disbelief willingly and fully. i will give you all of my heart, my investment and my applause, but in return i want your soul – or your blood. whichever is fitting to the stage you’re on.
and if you are not willing to give of this, then why are you there in the spotlight?
last night, during the last fight with an amazing muaythai fighter, Jarred ‘the Rothweiler’ Rothwell – the man is a goddamn machine – the ref called the fight halfway through the second round. there were supposed to be five rounds. FIVE. he called it because jarred had already dropped his opponent three times – as in, the man literally just dropped to the ground like someone had switched the flip on a walking dolly.
and man, i was PISSED OFF.
i felt cheated by his decision and the poor choice of competitor that denied me my chance to see this god-like man perform is dance of war.
get up and fight motherfucker i wanted to shout at the stupid human crumpled. and, in fact, did shout. that’s why you’re there. and if you should die in the process? well, it would make a better show.
turns out, i am the fucking mob and i will always turn my thumb down.