There was a little bloke in the aisle screaming his head off. Quite sweet he looked in his grey mackintosh and muffler. His flat cap fell down over one eye.
'Bucket Nut!' he yelled.
I could hear him clearly over the screams and yells. The things they think of to say.
'Shut yer face!' I gave him the finger.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Blonde Bombshell stagger to her feet. I turned my back.
There was a little old lady in the second row bouncing up and down with rage.
'You big ugly bully,' she screamed. 'Big ugly . . . trollop!'
'Trollop yerself,' I shouted.
The Blonde Bombshell hit me in the back and I fell against the ropes. The front row came alive, bashing me with shoes, programmes and handbags. I rolled away to the middle of the ring.
The Blonde Bombshell crashed on top and twisted my arm behind my back.
The front row went wild.
'Kill 'er,' they howled. 'Have her rotten arm off.'
The Blonde Bombshell grabbed a handful of hair and pulled my head up off the canvas. She is such a wanker.
'Watchit,' I said. 'Mind me teeth.'
She knew I had the toothache. But she bashed my face into the floor. Silly cow.