Fisting

Week seven of eight now and my two months of fun in the Christchurch sun are almost at an end. The Poe show is humming along nicely. We have decided to dispense with the dialogue and hum the entire script to the tune of 'Gloria' by Laura Branigan. The audience seem to be receptive although I don't like it when they join in for the chorus. I was a huge fan of Laura Branigan as a youth, I think her hit was on the Tracman 82 record that my brother and I went halves on, along with Electric Avenue by Eddie Grant and Eye of the Tiger by Survivor. Sadly Laura passed away in 2004 but not before guest starring on three of my favourite TV shows of all time, CHiPs, Automan and Knight Rider. She really had it all.

Although Poe has been fun I would give my left ventricle to not do the show tonight. I haven't not wanted to do a show in Christchurch this bad since U2 were here on their Zoo TV tour and I walked out of the theatre after bemusing 18 people to hear the distant cries of "oh oh oh oh...oh oh oh oh...oh oh oh oh...oh oh oh oh." This was not the sound of unimaginative intercourse in Room D, (although that is not an uncommon occurrence), but the orgasmic cries of 70,000 Cantabrians singing the chorus of 'Pride (In The Name of Love)'. I looked in the 36 eyes of the 18 audience members as they left the theatre with malice and hate and they looked into my eyes with hate and malice and I wanted to ask them why they had bothered coming but they were to busy asking themselves why they had bothered coming while Bono was asking all of us what more in the name of love?

My reason for wanting to abandon the tens of audience tonight is to watch The Fight of the Century. If it's billed as the fight of the century you know it's going to be special, especially when this century is still wearing nappies and shitting in them every day. The previous one was in 1971 between a couple of journeymen called Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali. Apparently that 15 round epic was a rather good match however it happened before I was born so it doesn't count. My fight of the century is screening tonight and Ali is replaced by David Tua and Smokin' Joe is Shane Cameron. I'm sure it will easily match up to the fight of the century back in 1971 however I won't be watching it because I will be dressed as Edgar Allan Poe humming Gloria for 82 minutes. Gutted is not a word I use lightly because it's often used by sweaty sportsmen and slaughterhouse workers however I'm using it now...I am gutted. I'm pretty sure Tua will take Cameron out in three rounds but I'm still gutted. I am missing my fight of the century. I will not get to see another one in my lifetime because I will be dead.

I went to see Peter my boxing man this morning and we discussed the fight in earnest while he slowly crippled me. Pete knows everything about boxing, he coached Tua early on in his career and Shane Cameron stayed at his house for 12 days while he worked with him as well. As he whacked me in the head with his focus pads everytime I forgot to keep my hands up I wondered what it would be like to actually get whacked in the head with the fist of another man. I love boxing dearly and thoroughly enjoy the training and tradition of the sport however I have never actually been fisted by another man in the ring, or on the street. The closest I got was one Friday night many years ago in Christchurch.

As with all major moments in my life this took place at a KFC establishment, the slightly scungy one on Colombo Street. I think it was after a Scared Scriptless show and myself, Nic and Stu decided to soak up some of the many $3 beers we had consumed by indulging in some of the colonel's finest. As we sat at our table gorging ourselves I noticed two likely looking lads glaring at us from the opposite table with one two piece quarter pack between them. At first I thought they were just hungry homeless urchins of the Oliver Twist persuasion enviously eyeing our three three piece quarter packs. I was wrong. Nic and Stu decided they had to relieve their bladders of some of The Court Theatre's wonderously cheap alcohol and off they went to the toilets together. The eys of the urchins followed them keenly and I pulled Nic and Stu's quarter packs closer to mine just in case the famished duo made a ravenous grab for them. Upon their return from the toilets one of the young scally-wags let rip with a chortle and a cry of "Homos!"

I was all for turning the other cheek and filling it with chicken however Nic was having none of this and retorted with a witty repost implying that they might be pots calling the kettles black. This caused great consternation with the rascals and they lept over and began trying to punch us all in the head with little success. I think they were mainly trying to punch Nic and Stu in the head as my head was buried in my chicken box but they didn't get much of a chance as they were promptly dispatched onto Colombo Street by a very large security man who looked like he got paid in left-over chicken at the end of each night.

I hoped that was the end of the affair but it was not. The two hungry boys were now delirious with anger and hunger as they circled the door like sharks looking at the remains of two uneaten bits of chicken and the three of us filling our bellys. Nic bravely decided to go outside with their uneaten chicken as a peace offering but got punched in the head and ran back in. We considered asking the security man if he would assist but after careful inspection realised he wouldn't fit through the door.

We decided the only option was to make a break for it in different directions and take our chances. We ran from the KFC and suddeny all hell broke loose in the campest way possible. The two urchins had mutiplied into about 20 and suddenly all of Colombo Street was filled with young men fighting in the most embarrassing way imaginable. Air punches were thrown with gay abandon and I'm certain at least 1o of them were just hunched over clicking their fingers in unison. We looked just like this...

We really did. If you know Nic, Stu and I it will be obvious which one is which. Anyway, Nic took a blow and some reprobate kicked him in the head when he was down. Stu took a hit as well and was intending to come back and continue things after going home to put on his steel capped Doc Martins but thankfully didn't. I danced and clicked with the best of them but nobody was interested in me, probably because I was wearing glasses. We all took off and left them to it. I think I heard the strains of 'Gee, Officer Krupke' as the police arrived to break the rumble up.