Tottenham Stadium Fight Night Experience: A Coked-Up Circus Of Human Tragedy!

I swear to God, in the event you ever need to see society collapse in real-time, simply head to a UK stadium battle.

Final night time at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium? Pure human zoo. You’d assume you have been strolling right into a big-time boxing occasion, however nope — welcome to Britain’s biggest freakshow: getting so coked up you assume you’re Tony Montana in a £900 Stone Island jacket your mum purchased you on Klarna funds.

First off, can somebody clarify why UK chicks costume like knockoff prostitutes from a low-budget Netflix documentary each time there’s a boxing battle night time? Like significantly — faux tan, faux lashes, faux designer luggage, and attire so tight you possibly can virtually see what they’d for lunch. Tip-toeing round puddles of piss and vomit in heels they clearly can’t stroll in. Is that this some sort of nationwide custom? “Oi Becky, we’re off to the boxing, don’t overlook your whore costume!”

Second, there’s actually nothing to see. I used to be about 40 yards from the ring, and all I acquired for my troubles was an ideal view of the again of some twat’s head waving a pint round like he was at Glastonbury. Couldn’t see a punch. Couldn’t even inform which blob was Eubank and which one was Benn. Would possibly as properly have been two mannequins combating on the different finish of a parking lot. Critically, DAZN on a cracked iPad would’ve been clearer.

And the lads? Oh God, the lads. Each second man was a Kieran or a Callum, appearing like he’s a scene veteran from Inexperienced Road Hooligans, shoving his chest out, nostril dripping from coke, on the lookout for an excuse to headbutt somebody over a spilled pint. Completely mashed, bouncing round like wind-up toys, making an attempt to begin fights with bins, stewards, one another, you title it. Each second phrase was “bro” or “bruv,” each third phrase was a slurred menace nobody was sober sufficient to again up. Actual bunch of champions. Absolute weapons.

After which the ladies once more, sorry however the ladies…Christ. I’ve seen better-dressed crowds outdoors 3-for-1 kebab outlets at 4 a.m. I don’t know who advised them dressing like rejected Love Island extras was a good suggestion for a boxing occasion, however right here we’re — faux tan melting below the stadium lights, mascara operating, sneakers in hand by 10 p.m., strolling barefoot on the sticky (urin and vomit) ground stepping into screaming matches over a dude in a spray-on Moschino T-shirt who couldn’t land a punch on his personal reflection.

Actually, the environment was like in the event you took a soccer away from a bunch of hooligans, handed them £200 price of low-cost coke, and advised them they have been the principle occasion. At one level I believe a full-scale riot almost kicked off close to the recent canine stand, and truthfully, it might’ve been extra entertaining than the precise fights… which once more, I noticed none of. Zero. Nada. Only a bunch of wasted heads craning at big blurry screens and pretending they knew what the hell was happening.

Stadium fights have to finish. Stadiumm fights are crap. You pay a whole bunch to see nothing, surrounded by drunk, coked-up clowns cosplaying as Nineteen Nineties soccer hooligans, and you permit with a headache, a stained pair of trainers, and a severe must rethink your life selections.

Subsequent time? I’m staying dwelling with a bag of crisps, a six-pack, and a 4K TV.

No piss puddles, no coked-up Kevins shouting “smack ‘im, bruv,” no remorse. Simply the battle. Think about that.