Become a Boxer
Working in the city can be tough. Sometimes you just want to whack someone, punch their lights out, cave their face in, crunch their nose with an upper cut so the boney bit goes into their brain. You get the picture. Where better to channel all that pent up rage than into the noble art of boxing. And if you think you’re too old George Foreman won the world title at 45, Evander Holyfield is still fighting aged 47 and Sylvester Stallone made Rocky Balboa at 60. See?
The big question is: are you hard enough? Did you have a difficult childhood? Were you deprived, brought up on the streets. Did you smack people up, fight your way out of corners? This will help. If you went to Eton then Cambridge then straight to UBS, I’m not sure how you’ll fare with someone who was mutilating animals at six and committing armed robbery at 13. If the worst you did as a child was pull little Jessica’s bunches that’s not a good sign – unless, that is, you yanked them clean out. That would be good.
If you think you’ve got what it takes, get yourself down to the nearest spit ‘n’ sawdust boxing gym. You know the sort. You don’t get free fruit or magazines. It’s dirt, farts, blood and shouting. It’ll toughen you up. Wear your oldest sweatshirt. Rip it, bleed on it, make it stink. Show them you’re serious. Look as mean as you can when you arrive. Suck on a lemon before entering if you have to. If you’re posh, don’t talk just grunt. If you’re lucky you might be lined up for your first sparring session. Just be careful. When I first boxed I floored my sparring partner, Charlie. I shouldn’t have done that. I felt particularly bad because she was adjusting her glasses at the time.