I swear to God, if you ever want a company to enter real time, just head to the stadium fight in the UK.
Last night at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium? Pure human zoo. You would think you entered a large boxing event, but not – welcome to the largest order in Britain: so you are doing tonne montana in a stone jacket, your mom bought you in your clary pay.
First, can anyone explain why in the UK jeva such as Knockoff prostitutes from the low budget documentary Skin budget, every time there is a boxing struggle? As serious – fake tan, fake lashes, fake design bags and dresses so hard you can see what they had for lunch. Type-toeing around puddles and vomiting in heels obviously cannot enter. Is that a kind of national tradition? “Oi Becky, we’re moving in the box, don’t forget the whore costume!”
Secondly, there is literally nothing to see. I had about 40 meters from the ring, and all I have for my problems was the perfect look at the back of the waves waving in Pint as he was at Glastonbury. I couldn’t see a blow. I couldn’t even say what Blob Eubank was, who was Benn. There could be two models to fight at the other side of the parking lot. Seriously, Dazn at the Ipad’s crack would be clearer.
And guys? Oh God, guys. Every other guy was Kieran or Callum, acting like it was on the scene on the scene with Hooligan Green Street, pushing his breasts, dripping from the excuse for someone to pour someone overspoured. Absolutely pure, bouncing around like a fan toys, trying to start fighting bins, stewardis, each other, you name. Any other word was “brother” or “brunch”, every third word was a dirty threat that no one was sober enough to make backwards. A real bunch of champions. Absolute weapon.
And then the girls again, sorry, but the girls … Christ. I saw better dressed crowds outside the 3-fi-1 Kebab store at 4 in the morning, but we fake the island in a hand shirt in a hairstyle shaped in a shirt in spraying hits my own reflection.
Honestly, the atmosphere was as if you walked into a pile of hooligans, they gave them cheap coke in the amount of £ 200 and told them that they were the main event. At one point, I think that the rebellion in the full scale almost started near the high dog stand, and honest, it would be more fun than the real combat … I didn’t see any of it again. Zero. Hope. Just a bunch of lost head craning on giant blurred screens and pretend they knew what the hell was going on.
The fighting in the stadium must end. It’s a scam. You pay hundreds to see anything, surrounded by drunken clowns that kali Cotslai as the 1990s football hooligans, and you arrow with a headache, colored couple of coaches and serious need to re-examine your life decisions.
Next time? I stay at home with a bag of crisis, six packs and 4K TVs.
No pissing, without diced Kevin, shout “smack ‘im, brunch,” no regrets. Just a fight. Imagine that.
Last Updated on 28.04.2025