Boys' Night Out

An artist's impression of The Man - almost.

The Man went to a friend's house for a boys' night out on Saturday to watch two grown men in baggy shorts and tasteless tattoos batter each other to within an inch of their lives - boxing I think they call it. Either that or a typical night out in Chav Land. I couldn't get too excited about it, despite the prospect of rippling muscles on well-toned male bodies... something I don't see much of these days.

He set off down the road with a few cans of beer clanking around in his Sainsbury's carrier bag looking more like a wino than a sports aficionado. 

Now, you women out there, don't let men fool you that when they get together they have intelligent conversations about politics, sport, and business, interspersed with the odd dirty joke and an exaggerated tale about a girl  they knew when they were 20 who went like a train. Actually, that last bit might be true.

No, the calibre of conversation is much more mundane. 

The hot topic on Saturday night was, apparently, braces (that's suspenders to my readers across the pond) and how handy they are for keeping up your trousers when you have a bit of beer belly - intellectual stuff, I'm sure you will agree.

I think a good time was had by all - he rolled in quite late minus the beer at any rate. He hadn't had too much to drink because he could remember that the British boxer in typical Brit-style had put up a plucky fight before losing to the Russian. There's a surprise.

He's now lying on the sofa snoring his head off. He'll be lucky if he gets away without a punch or two from me.

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