Boxing Moustaches

Hello Chaps,

I am still here. I'm just so exhausted most of the time. Not the sort of malady that falls on one when they black dog visits but a fitness mid-life crisis.

I'm not exactly sure it is a mid-life crisis but I am well, 30 and suddenly I've signed up to a load of new things. I box now.

Proper boxing in an East London gym, I'm new to it so mostly I spend evenings being punched in the face by people with tattoos.

It's hard to explain the pleasure of it, I suppose it's something to do with being told your entire life not to punch someone and then finally being told to punch someone as hard as you can.

There are rules of course and some of my fellow boxists don't entirely follow them. There is a chap called Joel who is Italian and seemingly doesn't understand that the face isn't part of the torso. When you spar with him, and the trainer - called Bill of course - says body hits only Joel still goes for the face.

So after he has smacked you in the chops you have to stop and say 'No look Joel, I know this is a fight but no punchy the face, capiche?'

The fight resumes, he behaves for a bit and then clocks you in the bonce again. The fight pauses again and this time the trainer Bill who looks like he would win a fight with a train steps in.

'Look Joel, no face punching okay? Just body hits'

I stand back and check I still have a nose. It's hard to do while wearing boxing gloves.

'I didn't punch him in the face' says Joel, doing a shrug. He is trying to look like the sort of person who couldn't even imagine punching someone in the face.

'I saw you do it Joel, keep the punches to the body, okay?' says the trainer.

Presence of nose confirmed, the fight resumes. It goes on for a bit, Joel is a wild swinging boxer and fast, so it's like fighting a squid, one that keeps clocking you in the face.

BAM.

I now have wonky jaw.

The trainer shouts at Joel again. Joel appeals that he could never have punched me in the face, I must have moved my fast forward and down suddenly into someone else's fist.

The fight begins again. I'm learning to protect my head.

Joel takes a swing at my head, but it is blocked. I let out an internal cheer. He smacks me on the other side of the head. I spin around a bit. A detached part of my mind things 'wow, that does really happen.'

My rage is building, fast. I've told him to stop. The trainer has told him to stop. In social situation this might end with a fight, but we are already fighting. I don't know how to respond.

I decide to write him a stiff letter. While deciding on an appropriately chilling sign off I am punched in the head again.

The fight is stopped. Joel gets a telling off from the trainer. I spar with someone else who because he is a gentleman only punches me in the stomach. It's bliss.

I still can't explain why I go, but I'm not stopping.

I may grow a moustache get the whole Victorian strongman look going a bit more. I know that this will mean that the delights of women would be forever closed off to me, but one has to pay the price for progress. I'd quite like a caddish pencil moustache, which would eventually grow into a quite bushy number.

One should never pick facial hair lightly. It's an investment

Cage fighting fops

Well, I think I may have just arranged my most dangerous assignment yet. Or at least the first part of the assignment, I've not actually got an editor to say yes but I have secured a place in a cage fight.

Yes, a proper cage fight in a competition. Now I've had a bit of training when it comes to fighting, but not for a while and nothing at this level. I mean really nothing anywhere close to this, so this will be one of the silliest things I've ever taken part in.

So if I do say yes - which is very likely provided I can find somewhere to write about - then I'm going to have to do a training montage and turn a slightly foppish chap with a nice snug waistcoat into a lean, mean, fighting machine.

Sounds like the start of an adventure to me, I do hope the editor I've pitched it to says yes.

The duelist

There are somethings I've always aspired to since I was terribly small. Sadly I think there is very little chance of me becoming a Privateer in the Caribbean, or invading France on horseback.

One of the other ridiculous things I wanted to be was a duelist. You know a chap in a smashing coat who defends someones honour for cash.

Yesterday that dream came true. I joked about it at work when a liable case came up and now it's going to be part of the settlement that the person who made the claim declined the offer of a duel to get his satisfaction.

It's not an entirely idle threat either. I've been doing various forms of martial arts for years, on a casual basis. I lived in Scotland for a while which got me into fights on an almost weekly basis because I was English and talked to girls and that is not acceptable in some parts of Scotland. I've even been in proper street fights, with knives and I picked up a few scars and yet I'm still alive so perhaps that should be a warning to people thinking of kicking off with a fop.

Dueling now my officially part of my job at this company. While I'll still write nonsense if anyone asks what I do, I'm the duelist.

This has been a fairly ridiculous week.