Tottenham Stadium Fight Night Experience: Exalted Circus of Human Tragedy!

I swear to God, if you ever want to see the society collapses in real time, just head to fight in the British stadium.

Last night at Tottenham Hotspur? Pure human zoo. You would think you were entering the boxing event, but not in the biggest British phrase: so you add up, you think you are a Tony Montana in a Kamenčani £ 900 jacket, your mom bought you a payer for Klarna.

First, can anyone explain why British chickens dress like Knockoff prostitutes with a low -budget netflix documentary every time a boxing struggle occurs? As seriously – fake tanned, false eyelashes, false design bags and dresses so tightly that you can practically see what they had for lunch. The button around the puddle pisses and vomiting in the heels obviously cannot enter. Is that a kind of national tradition? “Oi Becky, we’re heading to boxing, don’t forget the booze costume!”

Second, there is literally nothing to see. I was about 40 meters from the ring, and all I got for my trouble was the perfect view of the back of the head of the waving head that waved the pint as if he had been in Glastonbury. I couldn’t see a blow. I couldn’t even say what Blob Eubank is, which is Benn. There could also be two models fighting at the other end of the parking lot. Seriously, the dazn on the cracked ipad would be clearer.

And the guys? Oh my God, guys. Every other guy was Kieran or Callum, acting as if a veteran scene from Green Street Huoligan, pushed his chest, dripped his nose out of the coca, seeking an excuse for his head to be over the spilled pint. Absolutely puree, jumping around like toys, trying to start a fight with cans, a stewarded, you called each other. Every other word was “bro” or “bruv”, every third word was a painful threat that no one was sober enough to support themselves. A real pile of champion. Absolute weapon.

And then again the girls, forgive, but the girls … Christ. I saw a better crowded crowds outside the 3-Zbab store shop in 4 AM I don’t know who told them that dressing like discarded island extras were a good idea for a boxing event, but here’s our nasa tan that melts under the stadium, mascara, shoes in hand in the Moz, who do not throw themselves into the urine and enter Urin in the urine.

Honestly, the atmosphere was as if you were stripped of football from a bunch of hooligans, giving them 200 pounds cheap coke and told them they were the main event. At one point I think the clutter full of exchange almost started near the Hot-Dog standpoint, and honestly, it would be more fun than real fights … which I didn’t see any of that again. Zero. Hope. Only a bunch of lost heads squeeze on giant blurry screens and pretending to know what the hell is happening.

The stadium fights must be completed. The stadium fights are shit. You pay hundreds not to see anything, surrounded by drunken, called clowns playing as a 1990s football hooligans, and you leave with a headache, a colored pair of coaches and a serious need to re-examine your life decisions.

Next time? I stay home with a bag of crises, six packages and 4K TV.

There are no writers’ thieves, without muffled Kevin who shout “smack” im, bruv, “without regret. Just a fight. Imagine that.