Remember that lad at school who always bragged about how he snuck into the Odeon to see The Warriors, and how his Dad would let him drive the car into the garage? The same youth would boast the next day that he got into the boxing booth, and would spin a tale of gore and brutality that would make Mortal Kombat look like a pillow fight. And, as always, he would be lying out his arse.
When I say `the Boxing Booth', I mean`The Boxing Booth', as it was pretty much the last one in the world. Massive paintings of Ali, Henry Cooper and Joe Louis at the front, with some wizened old bloke in a tux, his mate who was the ref and the dead spit of Jimmy Ruffin, and their lumpy, bent-nose henchmen, all of them casting aspersions upon the manhood of Nottingham. A huge crown embroidered inside the tent with an inscription that read something like `We have entertained the crown heads of Europe'. Remember that scene in The Krays when the Kemp Brothers knocked seven shades out of each other? That booth used to be at Goosey every year. And it was skill.
Whoever ran that booth (A chap from Cardiff called Ron Taylor) was a genius. For years, it used to be `Last Three Rounds With Big Romany Bloke And Win Ten Bob'. Then one year, he must have thought; "Hang on a minute - this is Nottingham. People here don't need an incentive to chin someone else"
So it became `Come and punch someone really hard in the face without ending up in the cells, or come and watch some other blokes have a fight and take the piss out of them without the risk of getting glassed'.
They must have ran at least 20 `cards' a night, and they were always the same;
Spotty Youth V His Equally Acne-Encrusted Mate
Definite undercard fodder. Two lads have come out with a couple of birds on a promise, and have already blown their Mam's board money on rides, candy floss and foam JR hats in a valiant attempt to cop a feel in the Ghost Train, but to no avail whatsoever.
There's only one thing for it - they're going to have to prove their manhood in the ring, because nothing impresses women more than pointless violence, eh ladies? However, youthful bravado turns to brown trousers when you're wearing gloves the size of pillows and 500 people are staring at you. The fight goes like this; 30 seconds of skipping about staring at each other, ten seconds of Pete Townsend-like windmilling, and then a good two minutes of clinching. Repeat. Repeat again.
"Oi, I thought you were men, not bloody nancies - start boxing or go back to yer Mammies!" growls Jimmy Ruffin. "Break it up! Sir's coming!" shouts Lairy Bloke In Crowd. Spotty Youths look round in shock. Crowd howls with glee. `Fight' goes on until someone bleeds down their Gallini T-shirt or Jimmy Ruffin has had enough. Spotty Youths leave the ring in shame and look for their companions, who have invariably wandered off to see that bloke on the Waltzers who offered them as many goes as they like in return for a snog with him and his mate.
Wrestling Match Between The Blokes Who Put The Ring Up
One question; why? There was only ever one person at Goose Fair who actually wanted to see any wrestling - that old woman who practically lived in the booth during Goose Fair weekend and used to bang her umbrella on the ring apron non-stop.
When I say `Wrestling', I don't mean some WWF-style hardcore showmanship, I'm talking old-school Big Daddy nonsense, the kind of thing you had to sit through on a Saturday afternoon round your Nana's while waiting for Dr Who to come on. After ten minutes of mind-blowing tedium, OMIAT would invite you to put 50p in the cap of one bloke "As he's come down all the way from Mansfield just to entertain you".
Someone Who Practically Lives At A Local Boxing Club V Squaddie On Leave
Now then, this was what we'd come to see. Someone Who Practically Lives At A Local Boxing Club has been waiting all year for Goosey to roll around, and it's not because he wants to win a John Travolta key ring on the Hook-A-Duck, either. He's spent all year beating the crap out of hunks of meat in Viccy Market and running up the steps of the Council House, all for this one moment. Just the sight of him - nostrils flaring, death-ray glare and arms like Stuart Pearce's legs - reduces lesser men's scrotums to the size of Cadbury's Mini-Eggs.
Squaddie On Leave, however, is not to be underestimated. He has spent all day shovelling his money into those mechanical punchbags with his mates and making the bell ring every time. This is going to be an absolutely thrilling encounter, the equivalent of Ali V Foreman (if Ali came from The Meadows, and Foreman had just finished a stint in Belfast).
This fight lasts approximately 20 seconds, SOL ends up having to take his face home in a used candy floss bag, and SWLAALBC comes back half an hour later to beat up someone else, having more fights over the weekend than Joe Louis ever had during his entire career.
Another Wrestling Match Between Some Other Blokes Who Put The Ring Up
As before. By this time, you can not take your eyes off the old woman with the umbrella, and you start wondering; what are her family doing right now? Are her kids sitting at home, trying to explain to their kids that they can't see Granny at the moment because she's on the Forest going absolutely rabid over two middle-aged blokes in their pants? Is her husband rubbing his hands with glee at the annual opportunity to have the house to himself so he can get his pornography out of the attic?
In any case, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank her for being as much a part of Goose Fair as luminous necklaces that run out by the time you get home and misspellings of the term `Piping Hot Peas'.
Local Hard-Nut V Another Local Hard-Nut
The final bout of the evening, and a classic. However much we tut about the violence in town on a weekend, there's nothing better than seeing two evenly-matched meatheads going at it, just as long as you're not near the front and end up getting all blood and snot on your toffee apple.
Local Hard-Nut will always have a gang of equally lairy mates with him, and the cheeky one in the gang will always shout "Get yer KNIFE AHT, GAREH!" Meanwhile, Another Hard-Nut has an entourage of his own, led by Screeching Girlfriend.
By this time, the rest of the crowd are joining in, mainly from the back where no-one can see them. "CHIN `IM, BAZ!" was a favourite cry (even when there wasn't anyone in the ring actually called Baz), along with other technical terms like "Crack `im a fooker" and "Pan `im one".
By the end of the fight, both combatants have beaten each other into a standstill, OMIAT declares a draw, and they give each other a manly hug of mutual respect and they go off to Yates like long-lost brothers. Either that, or they have a massive gang brawl in the graveyard with knives and all sorts.
Sadly, Ron Taylor packed away his booth in 2000, and retired at the age of 90. Obviously, this is a great loss to the city. With all the hassle that goes on in town at the weekend, surely the Council could arrange to have it erected in the Market Square every Saturday, and charge a fiver to come see the locals punch each other in the face in a safe and controlled environment.
Next: Goldfish!
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