Tottenham Stadium Fight Night Experience: A human tragedy circus!

I swear that God, if you want to see that society will collapse in real time, only go to a struggle of the United Kingdom Stadium.

Last night at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium? Pure human zoo. You could think that you went to a big boxing event, but not, welcome to the biggest freakshow in Britain: get so cooked, think you are Tony Montana in a £ 900 Stone Island Jacket, your mother bought you from Klarna’s payments.

First, can anyone explain why UK chicks dress as Knockoff prostitutes of a low -budget Netflix documentary every time there is a box of boxing struggle? Seriously: Fake tan, fake tabs, false design bags and dresses so tight that you can virtually see what they had for lunch. Types of fucking fucking and vomit with the heels where they can clearly not enter. Is it a kind of national tradition? “Oi Becky, let’s go in the boxing, don’t forget your bitch dress!”

Secondly, there is nothing to do. It was about 40 meters from the ring, and everything I had for my problems was a perfect view of the back of the Twat head that stirred a pint as if it were in Glastonbury. I couldn’t see a punch. I couldn’t even say what Blob was Eubank and what Benn was. It could have been two mannequins fighting at the other end of one car park. Seriously, in a cracked iPad it would have been clearer.

And the boys? Oh God, the boys. Every second boy was a kieran or a Callum, acting like a veteran stage in Green Street Hooligans, throwing his chest out, his nose dripping coke, he was looking for an excuse to do it with someone on a pint. Mashed absolutely bouncing as wind toys, trying to start fighting with bins, administrators, each other, put it. Every second word was “bro” or “bruv”, every third word was a inclined threat, no one was sober enough to back up. A real group of champions. Absolute weapons.

And then the girls again, sorry, but the girls … Christ. I have seen more well -dressed crowds out of 3 for 1 Kebab stores at 4 in the morning. I do not know who told them to dress as extras on the island of rejection was a good idea for a boxing event, but here we are: false fusion in the stadium lights. He could not punch his own reflection.

Honestly, the atmosphere was as if you swallow a football from a group from Hooligans, handed them a cake -£ 200, and told them they were the main event. At one point, I think a large -scale bend almost started near the hot dog stand and, honestly, would have been more entertaining than real fights … that again, I did not see. Zero. Nothing. Only a lot of missed heads that were wasted on the blurred giant screens and pretending that they knew what devils was happening.

Stadium fights must be over. It’s a scam. You pay hundreds to see nothing, surrounded by drunken clowns and cokes that sewed like football hooligans in the 90’s, and leave with a headache, a couple of stained trainers and a serious need to reconsider your life options.

Next time? I stay home with a crunchy bag, a six -pack and a 4K TV.

Without rafts, no kevins cochedes shouting “Smack ‘im, bruv”, without regret. Only the fight. Imagine —