It was the worst thing to happen to the aged since the Labour Party unceremoniously cut the winter fuel allowance, and added to that, my weekend body clock is all akimbo, having stayed awake most of Friday night to watch the Jake Paul/ Mike Tyson ‘fight’.

As a spectacle, it was initially intriguing and I, much as it pains me to admit it, bought into the hype, even wasting a few hours of my life pre-‘fight’ viewing the Netflix documentary which was little but a glorified sales pitch.

It's true that when all is said and done, the only thing we die with is our legacy and reputation and, sadly, ‘Iron’ Mike has now damaged his by participation in this modern-day freak show. He is now more ‘brittle bone’ or ‘octogenarian’ Mike after a woeful display saw him throw but 18 punches over 16 minutes of ‘action’ as father time stripped him bare and caught up with him.

You must hand it to Paul however: It seems a lifetime ago that oiks like yours truly have based a weekend around a boxing match. In decades past it involved late-night lock-ins in south London boozers to watch the electric, brutal and raw likes of Benn, Eubank and their compatriots doing battle to the limit (and sometimes dipping over that line: see McClellan) as the drink flowed and we stood in awe at the spirit of these bloodied, modern day bravehearts.

Jake Paul however is a ‘YouTuber,’ but aren’t we all? I, like you no doubt have made YouTube videos, although I hazard a guess his have received more than 50 views and some baldist abuse, like your truly, as he has forged a career, and an extremely healthy bank balance, on what I would deem to be limited, and questionable, talent, but that of course is sour grapes on my part.

He has little to his chi, except for the fact that he is a genius marketer. Slick in production, although crass in spades, the event included a shot of Tyson bare bottomed, ring girls with greased up bosoms who knocked back the ‘me too’ movement a decade plus, and razzmatazz, fireworks, laser shows and other flotsam, as we all waited, more in hope than logic, that 58-year-old Tyson, overweight and struggling to walk, would somehow kick the butt of his 27-year-old opponent.

Paul came out for the ring walk in a car for some reason with his dodgy tattoos, Amish beard and bore-fest brother as they sprayed some deodorant which, judging by the sweat on his body by the end of round eight, was as effective as a chocolate teapot.

Tyson, looking as uncomfortable as I have ever seen him, arrived with his leg strapped up and was sweating like an asthmatic pit pony by the time he had stepped through the ropes as he ‘squared up’ to Paul, crassly bedecked in a pair of garish $1M silver shorts which failed to detract attention away from his complete lack of ring craft or boxing skill.

The fight itself had all the excitement value of jet washing the patio as they danced like drunk uncles at a wedding for 16 minutes and avoided any meaningful contact before Tyson, visibly pleased that he had managed to swerve a coronary as he added 20 million or so to the coffers, waited for the inevitable verdict after the final bell. As soon as was possible, he scuttled off to try and work a plan to rectify some of his now tattered legacy and retreat from the place he has never truly been comfortable: the limelight.

Paul on the other hand, gloatful in ‘victory’ against a washed up has-been, was last seen touring care homes around the Texas region eying up his next fight (rumoured to be Dick Van Dyke) which should be sponsored by Dignitas or an incontinence pad company, as he avoids proper boxers and continues to inexplicably coin it in. But the knockout is his, as he has completed his mission to squeeze every last dime from those of us who really should know better than to subscribe to this over-hyped, insidious, vacuous nonsense…

  • Brett Ellis is a teacher