I was a sh-it boxer

Was anybody else a sh-it boxer??

I was talking to my eldest yesterday, whilst the History Channel was on in the background. Something on the telly caught his eye.

"Who's that daddy?"

"That's Muhammed Ali, son."

"Was he a boxer?"

"Yes, son. Some people think he is the best boxer that ever lived. Your grandad goes on about him whenever he gets the chance."

"Is he dead?"

"No, but he's not the boxer he used to be."


"Cos he got old and sick."

"Was grandad a boxer?"

"No, son. There isn't anything he doesn't know about it, but he never actually boxed. I did, though."

His eyes lit up. A big beam of pride spread across his face.

"You were a boxer. Wow."

"Not for long, just a couple of years"

"Were you as good as Muhammed Ali?"

"I remember thinking so, son. But unfortunatley for me, I was fcuking sh-it at it."

That was the end of the conversation, but I had a good laugh to myself last night reminiscing about what a fcuking lame-o I was when it came to trying to punch people. My short lived boxing career, came about, as for most Bill Oddies as a complete diversionary tactic and escape from the 'rigours' of the Apprentice College. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Corporal ***** was putting together a team for the inter-squadron boxing and he was looking for volunteers from all the divisions. The only thing that qualified him as a boxing coach was his ability to wear a rolled up towel round his neck with the ends jammed in to the top of his sweatshirt. It was a testament to his persuasive abilities that he made it sound inviting. Instead of saying that we would be subjecting ourselves to a medieval training regime that would finish with us getting leathered in front of the whole college and John Conteh, he focussed on the positive. We'd get out of trade training, the sloppos wouldn't batter our hands if we went for extra helpings at brekky and we would earn the admiration of our peers.

Unfortunately for me, throughout the whole training period and right up to the weigh ins, everyone had conspicuously failed to notice, that I was sh-ite at boxing. When we were working the big bag, I used to miss with every second punch. Obviously it was quite tricky to hit, standing there perfectly still, the size of a grizzly bear. I took several standing counts whenever I had to work that ball that hangs down from the ceiling. As for sparring, I just used to look like Stan Laurel, trying to swing my spindly arms with gloves the weight of microwave ovens on my hands. In the time it took me to put a combination together, my opponent could do a crossword.

Corporal ***** kept the faith and put me in anyway. In hindsight, I can only assume that nobody else in the squadron was in the frame to fight as a 'paper-clip weight.' I had to carry two bags of shopping to get the scales to move on the weigh in.

Unsurprisingly, on the night of the fight, I got marmalised. With the crowd of nearly 1500 baying, i'd managed to whip myself up into some sort of frenzy, bobbing and weaving all the way to the ring. Just before the bell rang to start the fight, Corporal ***** gave possibly the best boxing advice in history.

"Right, Convoy. Try to hit him as hard as you can and try and make sure he doesn't hit you." Look out Angelo Dundee!!

The bell went and I moved in to meet my adversary. I did a couple of foot shuffles. They looked good from the side but I was only trying to get some sellotape off one of my trainers. As we closed to punching distance, I sized him up. Slightly shorter than me, with a crouched style. Right, I thought, let's see if I can soften you up with a few of my trademark jabs. Going against traditional boxing dogma, I dropped my left to jab with my right. As I did so, what can only be described as a boxing glove seemed to appear from nowhere, before connecting soundly with my hooter. Fcuk me, I thought as the back of my head hit the canvas. I managed to beat the count. I wish I hadn't really, because I spent pretty much the next three rounds holding on to the other fella's leg whilst he tried to punch me on the top of the head. By the end, everyone was a bit embarassed really and when the bell went, I got up and gamely pretended that I might have won the fight. The judges weren't fooled and awarded the most unanimous points decision in boxing history.

Corporal ***** was sympathetic when I made my way back to the corner.

"Fcuk me, Convoy, you are one spineless c-unt. I knew you were sh-it, but I didn't think you were that sh-it"

I would be interested to hear from any other arrsers who have ventured into any sort of sporting arena with less than glowing success.
Convoy.... I have just come back from the ranges where I can honestly say, I have never been wetter...!!

Desperately in need of some morale, I just read your vivid account of your brief and not at all glorious boxing career and pissed myself laughing all the way through.

The bit about the Ali shuffle really being an attempt to get some sellotape of your daps was priceless.

Well done Mr Cock.

My army boxing experiences were limited to enforced milling and being informed by our 2 icecream that I 'Couldn't fill in a leave pass'.
Not to be disheartened, I took up regimental tug of war. Big mistake, there was negligible kudos and most of the team were just the BFT failures, save for one or two wretches thrown in to keep the team weight within the limits.
We were dung. Our big pull that should have been able to up-root an opposing team had about the same effect as the Dickensian 'door and string' method of extracting a tooth.
All the big competitions were hosted by red cheaked ruddy looking farming types, whose love of the sport was only eclipsed by their penchant for s0domising their livestock.
The whole sordid affair is a chapter in my life that I am trying desperately to erase from my memory, and should my boy ever ask about it, I will just set about him with a tomatoe cane.
As a child my father sent me and my best mate to a boxing club in Tredegar (one of the roughest valley towns in Wales) to try and toughen me up. After months of training to try and bulk me up I was still deemed too small to spar. Initially gutted, I soon saw the benefits of being a frail weekling when my best mate, who was big for his size, was allowed to spar. Unfortunately for him his opponent was the only 11 year old that I've ever seen with a moustache and he proceeded to get battered every week. I on the other hand got really good at skipping......
Aww the little conversation between Father and Son sounded sweet.

I can't contribute much to the rest of the topic, becuase I hate boxing so I'll just f*ck off.
I did the Milling thing too. They say it is the longest minute of your life, but is it? I've no idea, being knocked unconscious three times in that time. Given how many seconds it took me to wake up, shake my head, think "Uh?", shake my head again, wobble to a standing position, look across at the five identical opponents cowardly hiding in a form of indoor ground fog and be knocked down again, it didn't seem to take too long at all.

I somehow managed to scratch the other five, and all the nose too. But I still lost.

Well, I was outnumbered.


Kit Reviewer
Book Reviewer
Last Boxing Bout was at, at Chatham, Apprentice RE against Apprentice RLC, not saying it was rough but one of the RLC got his leg broken!
AAC - introduction to "inter-squad" boxing. Simple really - you got on the scales and then you were paired off with some of a "similar" weight.

Now Tiff being not that tall but solid (built for rugby rather than floor gymnastics with that hoop-la thingy) was paired off with blokey who was 6' something and built like an anorexic racing snake.

The bell went and out we came; three paces out of my corner and Lurch was there already - he'd taken three paces too, but his stride was similar to a circus clown on stilts - whatever possessed me to run straight onto his 7ft outstretched arm I'll never know - straight on me arrse in the corner. "get up yer little fcuker - and tear him apart", was the advice hissed from my trainer (PTI Bomberdier prize testicle of the highest order). I got up - lasted the three rounds but needless to say neither of us did any tearing apart.
Excellent stuff!! convoy on fine form as per usual

A tale that went into the regimental (boxing) history. Twas the night of the inter-company boxing and all was going swimmingly for the company team until, ashen-faced, the team manager reported to the OC that Cpl X was unfit to box. The OC at the time, with remarkable sang-froid said "Well, I suppose I'll just have to stand in for him" and went off to change. The word went round the gym faster than a London car clamper on overtime - Maj F-K was going to box! Obviously, F-K was unaware that he was going to be up against one of the regimental animals. Extra beers were laid in, fresh fags lit up (it was that long ago) and the cogniscenti sat back and waited to see an orficer pasted all over the canvas.
Things didn't improve when F-K returned, with his stork-like body clad in a red PT vest, blue shorts, socks green wrinkled and a pair of polished black daps. You could hardly hear the referee's instructions above the smothered sniggers of the entire battalion. Came the bell and the animal erupted from his corner, guard well up, snorting, bobbing, weaving ....... to be met by F-K who had struck a pose that a Victorian prize fighter would have used for publicity photographs. By this stage members of the WOs'and Sgts' Mess were having to have first aid treatment as a result of their laughter - all, surprisingly, save F-K's CSM who was quietly taking side bets....
Animal slowed.... and was promptly smacked between the eyes by a glove at the end of an arm that seemed about 12 feet long. Animal, being a savvy brawler, realised that to get points on the board (or the blood on the canvas that the horde was baying for), he had to get in close. F-K, equally, realised that to survive he had to keep the Animal's rib-smackers away from him. The next two and a half rounds were a fantastic demonstation of reverse running, during which time F-K's windmill arms would snap out a jab now and again - and each time points would go on the board. In fact, as the Animal slowed (bl**dy hard work chasing after a bloke with four foot long legs), the jabs became more frequent. It wasn't all one way traffic and each time the Animal hit , a red mark showed exactly where he had struck, but it wasn't frequent enogh to swing the balance his way.
Come the final bell and one company erupted in disbelieving roars of approval, the Offrs' Mess applauded politely whilst all adopting the look that says "yeah, we're all as hard as F-K, we just don't like to show it", the Sgts' Mess had the auditors in to sort out all the money that was flowing in the direction of one CSM and the rest of the battalion was sat in stunned silence. F-K was living proof that guile, experience and a devout desire to preserve one's skin will always prevail against youth and enthusiasm.
It being the army, everyone got a trophy, regardless of how miniscule their contribution was.

It still has pride of place on my mantelpiece and is inscribed with almost the perfect description of abject failure.

[align=center]Apprentice Tradesman Convoy_Cock

Boys service Bramcote 1966 recruits boxing; I had been matched to box a recruit a wee bit smaller than myself so was full of confidence.

Round 1, I was out ready to knock seven shades of sh1t out of him but to be fair he was a might quicker than Henry and did land a couple (lucky) of punches, but no matter I could handle this bloke.

Round 2, This was the round I was going to stop him, strangely he managed to land a few more (lucky) punches, but no matter what I still had was round 3 to finish it, when I got back to my corner I was aware my seconds were not interested in me any more and wanted to know who the "other" recruit was........most odd that ,I thought.

Round 3, last round and now was the time to put him down, my God he was lucky managing to land those (lucky) punches on me again. No problem! he was going down in the third and I was going to do it. But why did I feel like I was drunk, strange I hadn't had a drink all week (difficult on 15 bob a week) I also stumbled a couple of times, wet canvas probably but I had him and this was his last few minutes on earth, ........................the ref pulled me off the canvas to prevent me doing more damage to him, Wot the Fcuk!! The ref has held his arm up and stopped the fight, he's got it all wrong I should have won!

Looking back the canvas was wet from blood from my nose, after sorting myself out in the bogs with my head in the sink I heard a permanent member of staff say "are you all right son?" Yeah fine I replied, but fcuk this I think I'll join the cycling club instead of this boll0cks.
I heard a laugh looked round and saw RSM Wes***p leave the toilets, it has emmbarrased me all my life that Junior Gunner Wh**** beat sh1t out of me, but there again I was only fifteen years old.
Tell you what convoy, you may be a sh1te boxer, but your stories are fecking great for brightening up a dull office day!!! Give the man a medal!
Have to admit that my normal boxing prowess is mostly untested, however I did grace the presence of a Tai Boxing club, having dne some martial arts in the past, i thought this would be a bit of a giggle. Me and a civvie mate ent along (he was a member, i was a guest) and this small scrawny bloke got up front to teach. Now me being a 6'2'' forward, thought he was a bit scrawny.

our first lesson was a kick to the upper chest area. Scrawny bloke asked for a volenteer 'victim', no one else made a move, so i thought an oppotunity to show my colours and stood up. He gave me a pad to hold and then demonstrated the kick in slowmo. All fine and hardy a whisper. He then said he would demonstrate at full speed, at which he delivers a super fast kick, but being "as hard as nails" (or so i thought), i absorbed all the kick with a grin.

At my grin, the rest of the class seemed to shuffle back against the wall as the scrawny instructor said "what you laughing at", my reply was along the lines of "well, its not very powerful is it, you can only seem to use it effectivly to people samller that you". He replied with a comment that can be condensed to "ok lets show you" I hold up pad, fairly relaxed (and bear in mind i was about 18 stone and very muscular) the next thing i remember is bein hit in the chest by what seemed like a torpedo and then slamming against the wall and trying to remember how to breathe. I could see him putitng his leg down i that slow reveral movement that all martial artists seem to like when they are showing off!

On my way out, i looked a the literature and piccies on the wall and it turns out that this bloke is some european champion. I didn't go back!

And the moral of the story - Little scrawny bast@rds who look soft, probably arn't! and Cockiness is the first thing to dissapear when your getting a kicking!

Never did get into the boxing lark. When the inter Coy competition came up, Social clears off to Warminster to play with radios rather than get his swede rearranged. Anyway, course over, leave taken and I find myself sat at the end of the NAAFI Bar with me bezzer. After the obligatory few too many pints of courage (the inner feeling kind, not the sh-ite beer) Social decides a game of 'punch till you bleed' is on the cards. With that, his feeble 11 stone frame throws out a left and catches his bezzer on the chops with a sound not unlike buttered toast hitting the floor. Bezzer is suddnely not a happy chap, apparently i had ommited to inform him that we were playing a game, and as such he piroetted on his stool and unleased a ham like fist, knocking me off my stool, splitting me lip and loosening two teeth.

On rising from the floor, much to the assumement of the (already in the know) onlookers, he informs me of his new position as the battalion heavy weight champ.
Charlotte_Roberts said:
Aww the little conversation between Father and Son sounded sweet.

I can't contribute much to the rest of the topic, becuase I hate boxing so I'll just f*ck off.

well at least your honest!!
Good Drills!
For some strange reason I was entered in a cross-country race at school one time. I came 9th....out of 9 competitors. By the time I finished the guys at the finish line had packed up and gone home! Ok, I wasn't that bad but I was up against people who were running for the fcuking county!!!

At the end of term my form teacher asked me what I'd done for games that term, and I told him about coming 9th in the cross-country. In my school report he later wrote, "Radovan has been a member of a very successful cross-country team this term."
I've been trying not to mention this but.......
When I were but a lad, I had, for a reason that totally escapes me now, a real hate with a guy in my platoon. It was mutual. We were always looking for several mates to hold us back so we couldn't do the things we had threatened to do. My CSgt got wind of this and decided that it had to be sorted and, in the time-honoured manner, we would do it in the ring.
Now, until we got in the ring, I was convinced that I was (a) going to cream the b'stard and (b) I would do it in a manner that the great Ali would applaud. Trouble was, as soon as we got into the ring, the sod sprinted from his corner and tried to convert the Rickshaw jewels in the same way that Wilkinson would convert a penalty.
The reason why I don't box is the same reason that I was thrown out of a judo club, was a reason for serious counselling during aikido training and which earned me a reputation (completely unjustified) as a bad man in a punch up: its that I have an irrational objection to being hurt and will do anything, and I mean anything, to make the cause of the pain go away. I also squeal like a girl when I'm hurt and can't stand people imitating it afterwards. I'm told that the one punch I threw at my opponant was a beauty and would have won a proper match outright. It was the kicking I gave him afterwards, followed by dropping my body weight on him to make sure he never got up that was the problem.
And thats why I don't box.........
I wasn't so much shite as completly outclassed. I had to face the previous years regt champion who had trained all year since in my one and only bout.

I had trained well and had done really well in my sparring bouts so feeling up for it for the the match. I went to the ring first the champ ran to the ring we went through the formalities and the match began. he ran accross the ring at hit me with the hardest right cross I'd ever felt in my life.

Somehow staying on my feet for the 8 count I went back in ears still ring we ran at me again are started milling with me sat behind my guard wondering if it was safe to come out (any show of looking through my guard resulted in punch to that area). until the ref broke the fight to warn my oppenent for brawling, given this restart I throw 2 quick textbook jabs both of which my dark destroyer of an oppenent dodged gave me a huge piano like grin and carried on where he left off.

Now me not knowing the rules about defending yourself in novice boxing thought if i sat this storm out he'll blow out in the 2nd. Well when the ref stopped the fight after about a minute my opponent wasn't even remotely out of breathe let alone blown out.

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