HARVEY slumped forward, holding his head in his hands and mumbling. All around him were angry voices; ninety per cent male, maybe ninety-five per cent. They were standing, swearing and sweating. One minute and forty seconds earlier they had been standing and cheering – cheering so lustily it wouldn’t have surprised Harvey if they had raised the roof of the old Lyceum.

The mood was ugly. As there was no outlet for the air to escape, the mood just got uglier. The first bottle shattered on the ring apron about the time the bell for the end of the first round should have been ringing, if the round hadn’t ended ever so abruptly one minute and twenty seconds earlier.

Two more bottles, then an arm broken off a chair, a few cushions from the posh seats; and before you could say ‘seconds out’ whole chairs were being lobbed ringside.The saving grace was that the bottles soon ran out. They must have been smuggled in as all bottles – even plastic ones – had been banned at J. K. Levin promotions since the infamous and very bloody riot three years back at the Mimms-Ramos shindig. Still, enraged punters managed to give both fighters’ camps, dinner-suited officials and Press men a good dousing by hurling plastic pint pots. At four-quid a pop for the ‘best thing to come out of Denmark…’ it wasn’t a cheap soaking.

Harvey eventually rose to his feet just in time to witness a skinny, fake-tanned, over-bangled, middle-aged woman chuck a half-full tumbler of red wine into the rain of missiles. It fell a good dozen feet short of the ring and landed on a balding head in Row A. That seemed to cause Ms Fake Tan no end of amusement until Mr Balding Head turned round. The scowling features of Jack Brannigan scanned the crowd. No matter how ugly and menacing the mood of the crowd, it could never match the unadulterated ugliness etched into Jack Brannigan’s face; nor the menace he could exude with the merest twitch of his nostrils – either of his nostrils, in fact. Ms Fake Tan sat down and managed to hide behind several rows of beefy blokes. It was the smartest move she had probably made in days.

“Sorry lads,” muttered Harvey. “Bloody fiasco.” He was about to say something more when his eyes were diverted by a figure several seats to his right. He vaguely recognised the guy – maybe from The Oak? The guy was urinating into his pint pot and showed not the slightest concern as it filled and began spilling onto his hand. Then …Heave! Much of it went down his own sleeve, more splattered a few people on the rows in front; luckily none of it reached anywhere close to Jack Brannigan. A scuffle ensued as people became aware they had been spattered with real piss this time.

“Sorry lads,” Harvey reiterated with a touch more emphasis. He was shaking his head as he reached inside his trouser pocket, took out two betting slips, ripped them in half and flung them into the air. The fracas to his right was now attracting more attention than the action – or its sordid aftermath – in the ring. Men who one time could have been contenders were throwing punches; ponderous punches but ones Harvey would not like to take on the chin. “Time to leave, eh lads – guess the drinks are on me.”

They joined the trickle of unhappy people heading for the exits. Thankfully, some were staying behind to jeer, though the boxers were by now back in their dressing rooms. The Smithwick Arms was closer to the venue, but they preferred The Royal Oak and used the 15-minute stroll to walk off most of their anger. By the time they were settled with their elbows firmly planted on the bar at The Oak, any anger had turned to humour and then to ridicule, initially directed at the hapless and hopeless Jimmy ‘The Force’ Ford and then, more deliciously, at poor Harvey Mannings.

“Two hundred quid, Harvey! You had two hundred bleedin’ quid on that useless tosser?”

Harvey shrugged and shouted up another round. He was blushing again, but his pals assumed it was caused by embarrassment. Harvey was in with Mr B., wasn’t he, and Mr B. had told Harvey time and again that ‘The Force’ was the deadest of all dead certs in the history of dead certism.

“Two-fifty, actually,” lied Harvey. “Split another fifty on the first six rounds this morning, didn’t I. How much are you guys down?”

“Fifty,” said Jack Barnston with a snarl. Jack was one of Harvey’s colleagues at the Evening Gazette and had clearly not enjoyed his rare Saturday night out with the boys.

“Score,” said Dazza without feeling.

“Thirty-five. Put the extra five on the first three rounds, did-n’t I,” said Andy Waller, Harvey’s oldest chum, before turning to study his pint of Guinness with an uncommon interest.

“Jimmy ‘The Force’ my backside.” Dazza still spoke with little emotion. “My old granny–”

“Jimmy ‘The Farce’ more like it,” scoffed Barnston. They all liked that. Make a good headline they ribbed Harvey. “See if you can flog it to your sports editor. See if he’s daft enough to give yer two hundred and fifty bleedin’ quid for it.”

Harvey smiled and found himself blushing again. The quips flew thick and fast, and Harvey prayed they wouldn’t find their mark.

“Jimmy ‘The Fix’ Ford, if you ask me.” Christ, they had found their mark! And in the voice of Marty Collier.