By Frank Mullin: The village of Britain has, for many years, been in a bit of a lull in regards to its royal prowess in the Ancient World of Boxing.
Joe the Sheep-Horse was the last great ruler, and his domination of the Middle areas of Ancient life was absolute and recognized by all in the great Kingdom of Sport; but boxers of his calibre have not been commonplace since his move to the exotic world of ball room dancing.
Carl the Snake, Amir the Olympian and David the Mouth – the new royal kids on the block – have yet to live-up to Joe’s high standards. So much so that, in one castle at least, the tactics have reverted to plunder and propaganda.
This was on full display all those boxing years ago, before David the Mouth took-on Wlad the Robotic.
It was a misty and rather drizzly morning in London, a complex of dwellings situated in the south-east of the village of Great Britain, which is the most westerly place in the county of Europe.
David the Mouth, a newly appointed King, was sat in his study, drawing-up a plan for his assault on one of the Eastern Menaces (Wlad and Vitali). The Menaces had been around for many, many years; and it was generally believed that they were invincible. Before they became known as the Menaces, they went by the collective name “the Generic Eastern Heads,” on account of them looking exactly like every man from Poland, the Ukraine and Russia.
Adam the Roundhead, entered the King’s study wearing a wizard’s robe: purple and silver moons and stars were emblazoned across its front. He had his fingers placed thoughtfully against his chin as he glided to where the young King was researching.
“Your majesty,” said Adam, “I have some bad news.”
King David didn’t look-up: “what’s that?” he asked.
“Well,” continued Adam, “I’ve consulted the three oracles of British boxing, and they think we’re going to struggle against the younger of the Menaces.”
King David continued to read the scroll on the table: “really?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Even the Canadian one?”
“Yes,” said Adam: “even the Canadian oracle of British boxing is concerned.”
The King wrote something on to a piece of paper next to the scroll, his feathered writing implement sweeping like a whale’s tale during a mating dance. He elaborately dotted the paper and then looked-up at his wise, hairless adviser: “I have a new plan,” he said.
The Roundhead’s fingers fell from his chin and rested by his sides, he focused his eyes on the young king and said: “you’re planning to do something other than hit and run?”
“No,” said the King with a smile, “I plan to hit and run faster than I’ve ever hit and run, but this time with more emphasis on the run.”
“And how is this a new plan?”
“Because,” said the King, “it’s going to leave me less affected after the fight to be able to enjoy all the riches I intend you to steal as I am distracting the Eastern Menace’s men.”
Adam the Roundhead pulled-out a chair from the table and sat down. Scratching his head, he thought for a second. “How do you know the Menaces will bring all these riches?” he asked.
“Simple,” said the King, “because I have sent letters to all four corners of the Kingdom, informing people of my intentions to kill the younger Menace.”
“But that is impossible.”
“Maybe,” said the King, “but people are idiots and will believe anything as long as it’s said right and by certain people.”
“But,” said Adam, “if the people believe you, they will travel in great numbers to support you.”
“And that’s exactly what I need,” said the King. “I need an army of support to justify my claims. If I can get people everywhere talking about the young King with the big punch, capable of taking the heads of larger men, the Menaces will bring their cash to the table.”
“But,” said the Roundhead, “to go in to a contest with no hope… maybe that’s a little too much.”
The king held-up the scroll he’d been studying as Adam entered the room: it was one of the ancient Python Teachings.
“You know of the great legend of the small Gladiator, who ran so hard during his battle with a much larger gladiator that his opponent suffered a cardiac arrest having chased so eagerly?” asked the King.
“Yes, but…”
“…Then there’s always hope,” said the King.
Adam the Roundhead’s brain was struggling to come to grips with the plan, his eyes moved from one object to another in the room, and a little perspiration gathered on his shiny head, making it gleam like a newly Mr. Cleaned side-board.
“But,” said Adam, “will people not know after the fight that was all a waste of time?”
The King laughed and said: “Adam, my dear man, the people will only know that Wlad the Robotic is a better heavyweight than I.”
“And what of your pre-match trash talk?”
“In the words of Audley the Disillusioned: ‘can an Englishman not have confidence, too?’”
Adam the Roundhead’s eyes glinted and a smile rose on his face. He looked at the King, whose smile was wide and knowing: they both burst in to hysterical laughter.
The laughter left the castle through a window and rolled-across the whole village. In the coming days people started to talk about the King’s intentions to decapitate the Eastern Menace Wladimir, and from the pages of the red-topped rags they imbibed each day, they put-together a mental picture of exactly how it would play-out: the King will reign supreme, they thought.