BULLSHIT BAFFLES THE BRAIN

As a boxing promoter he knew the first golden rule was to never doubt your own sales pitch. Doubt leads to uncertainty and punters can smell it a mile off if they think you're selling them bullshit.

But what Harry Weston also knew was that bullshit often baffles the brain and you can be twice as likely to snatch some coins off a dozy cunt when he's still trying to work out what it was you just said to him. He learnt that trick off his old man, a famous market seller who was notorious for always packing up early while the rest of the traders set up next to him still had another half a day of work ahead of them. "Poor fuckers," he would laugh whilst downing a half pint of golden ale in his favourite local pub, The Lucky Penny. He learnt never to get too tipsy whilst celebrating his good fortune. "Being sober while everyone else is drunk is the easiest way to stay rich, son."

Now that his old man had handed over the tricks of the trade to him, Harry was feeling the pressure to carry on the family business in a manner of speaking and right now he had the two most successful heavyweight boxers on the planet under his management. Number one, Robbie Turner and number two, Marcus Williams. Being in the middle of two monster sluggers was no mean feat when you were just the little guy in the middle selling the tickets. Alright, he did a bit more than just sell the tickets. He networked, manipulated and bragged til the cows come home and made sure all contracts included the maximum reward for his efforts. He had learnt to make himself indespensible to his fighters and in many ways treated them like they were family.

But having the WBA and WBO number one belt holder and the number one ranked contender both on his books meant he had  to deploy the ancient art of East End diplomacy which essentially meant deploying more top tier bullshit.

"Come on, Robbie, you know he's owed a shot at the title. He's been waiting a record number of days."

"Mate, I don't give a fuck. He can keep waiting for that bus to turn up."

"Bus?"

"Yeah. You know when you're waiting for a bus and it never shows up?"

"I haven't been on a bus since I was a kid," Harry said digressing momentarily from the main topic of focus.

"It was a metaphor."

"We ain't got time for metaphors right now, Robbie. We need to make a decision what we're doing with this. There's a shit tonne of money on the table. All your Christmases, Easters and Midsummer Sizzles is gonna come at once if you play your cards right."

But Robbie wasn't having any of Harry's bullshit today. He had made his mind up and if he had to vacate the belt he would, just to spite his number one enemy, Marcus Williams, who'd he hated since they'd first sparred as teenagers in their local gym "Bashers" in Herne Hill, London.

"I know it's about pride for you. You don't want to see him given a golden opportunity to knock you off your throne, but you know you ain't got nothing to worry about. He hasn't got your silky skills or ring IQ."

Robbie had heard all of Harry's spin before. He was tired of it.

"Mate. You were literally having dinner with the brick shit house last night."

"Yeah, because he's on my books as well. You don't expect me to put aside my professionalism because you can't stand him."

"Actually, I do. The way you always talk it's like our bond is deeper than anything. You made it sound like you would tell every other fucker to fuck off if it meant keeping me sweet."

"And I meant it! And I've told many people to fuck off, Robbie. But on this occasion we're talking a small country's worth of dosh that'll put us into a retirement home on Mars."

"Mars?"

"It was a metaphor."

Robbie impatiently checked his watch at which point Harry knew he was losing his fighter's interest.  

"Would a hundred mil help you reconsider?"

"A hundred mil? You not paying the other guy then?"

"I'll tell him he'll only get paid if he beats you, how's that?"

"He'd never do it!"

"Watch me!"

And with that, Harry winked at his number one fighter and disappeared off into the night.

"Fuck off. You mean I do all those months of training, risk my life in the ring, but only get paid if I knock the cunt out?" the 6'7 ft Marcus said, whilst pounding the punch bag to within an inch of its life as the sound of the indented leather echoed in the old fashioned gym.

"It gives you an incentive and will be great PR for you, Marcus."

"Tell you what. I'll do it if you waiver your fee for the entire fight, too."

Harry gulped. Marcus had called his bluff better than he could have done himself.

"Well?"

"Alright! Fuck it I'll do it."

"Only difference is you're not putting your life on the line like me. You need to prove you're prepared to die for nothing."

"I'd prefer to die for something," Harry said out loud not meaning to say it so openly in front of his number two ranked fighter.

"Well then. So would I. Fuck's sake. Taking no money for a fight. You're on a mad one."

"Alright. I've thought of something. I've trained as a referee and judged a fair few fights. How about I referee the fight between you both then you can't say I'm not risking it all for nothing?"

Marcus paused for a moment. "You need to have judged a mininum of fifty fights before you can referee a fight like ours."

"I'm sure I can squeeze in a few fight nights as a judge beforehand to bump up my numbers. What do you say?"

"You wouldn't be allowed to promote it as well as referre it, surely?"

"We'll deal with that technicality when the time comes. All that matters right now is getting you both to agree to the fight, right?"

Marcus couldn't help but burst out laughing as he realised that Harry was deadly serious.

"Alright then. Better bring your crash helmet!"

Sitting in the taxi on the way back to his office, Harry wondered why he had done it. He'd always been in it for the money, or so he thought. But perhaps he thought to himself he actually did it to put on the fights. He prided himself on being both a deal maker and a king maker combined.

But even by Harry's gold standard of bullshitting this was some bullshit but the difference this time was that he would have to actually walk the walk.

In the ring!

Four months later, the night of the fight had finally rolled around and Harry stood centre ring wearing a crisp, white Oxford shirt with black bow tie, black slacks and black leather shoes.

As he brought his two fighters together to remind them of the rules of the ring, he felt tiny in the shadow of both of these hulking men.

Even Marcus and Robbie as sworn enemies couldn't help but smile behind their gum shields at the sight of Harry Weston all kitted up to referee the biggest fight of the decade.

"What the fuck have I done?" Harry thought to himself.

For the first time he was putting his life on the line for something he truly believed in.

Bullshit.

Ding Ding!