The air is electric. Almost twenty thousand people of all persuasions cram into the main amphitheatre in the Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre. From pin- striped gents to the cardiganed el- derly, the magnetism is universal.
At 1800 exactly, the lights are dimmed. Several spotlights circulate the crowd. Silence cloaks the entire arena, save for the spo- radic crunches of vended pitta and hummus. A cavernous tenor fills the arena. ‘Ladies and gentle- men. Fighting out of the blue cor- ner, we have a formidable fighter. Weighing in at 235 pounds and standing at 6-feet-4-inches, he is the beast of Bethlehem, the hulk of the Holy Land: he is the cur- rent Prime Minister of Israel, Mr. Benjamin Netanyaaaahuuuu’. The arena erupts in deafening cheers as Netanyahu enters to the bellicose bass of Kasabian’s ‘Club- foot’. The ox-like PM is cloaked in a light-blue silk robe. His ston- ey face is calcified in a glare of marble determination.
The crowd’s infectious static begins to subside as the an- nouncer’s voice returns. ‘Fighting out of the green corner, weigh- ing in at a modest 128 pounds and standing at 5-feet-6 inches, is the President of the Palestinian National Authority - make some noise for Mahmoud Abbaaaas’. Once again, the cheering deafens. However, before the shimmering cymbals of ELO’s ‘Evil Woman’ dissolve into its jaunty piano riff, the pint-sized negotiator sprints into the arena and dives into the ring at lightning speed.
The two men circle each other. The crowd hums with excitement. A hysterical school teacher grabs me by the shoulder; ‘This is fucking it! They’re gonna fucking kill each other!’. I affect an enthusiastic grin before turn- ing back to the ring.
Abbas already has Netan- yahu in a tight headlock: the Is- raeli’s silver locks float over his scarlet face. A vein in his forehead balloons, spit strings from his lips. He quickly counters by delivering an industrial fist into the Palestin- ian’s flabby gut. Abbas releases his grip and crumbles into the canvas. Netanyahu delivers his steel-toecapped boot into side of Abbas’ head. The sharp snap of metal and skull, like a gunshot, disappears into the air. Abbas has bitten his tongue, spitting out foamy gluts of teeth and blood into the air. Netanyahu proceeds to thump his chest and scream. Could it already be over?
Before the thought material- ises, Abbas pounces to his feet and decides to play dirty. He jumps on Netanyahu’s back, wraps his arms and legs around his torso and sinks his teeth into his neck. The Israeli bellows before dropping to the floor. Abbas, crapulous from his cracked skull, is also on his back. The distressed fighters, contorted by spinal spasms, lie twitching in the ring. The crowd begins to go quiet. Soon all I can hear is the slow and heavy pant- ing of the two politicians.
In this momentary silence, pregnant with tension, both Ab- bas and Netanyahu begin to shit themselves. Their boxing shorts cannot hold back the faeces that spews like hot lava onto the bloodied canvas. The fight is over. The referee declares it a draw.
Disappointed, the specta- tors begin to leave the amphi- theatre. We are hurried by the Earl’s Court stewards, who have only a few hours to clean up be- fore the Coldplay gig at 9. I leave the building and head towards the Tube station. My oyster card doesn’t work, however, encour- aging me to ‘Seek Assistance’. I head to the ticket machine and top it up.