You may have missed this one although it should rank as one of the great sporting events of the last century, not for the fight itself which was somewhat reminiscent of Richard Dunn's rather unfortunate scrap with Mo Ali (made even more unfortunate by his curly-permed gob-on-legs of a wife). Again it was the build up to the great fight that made things so interesting, not months of boring bag work in some obscure training camp in a remote Arizonan ranch (or indeed an abattoir if you're a Rocky fan). Let me introduce the protagonists: In the red corner, weighing 8 stone 2, at a height of 6' 3" we have the West Country's very own M... 'Splitpin' A....... . 'Splitpin' was the lankiest streak of piss you've ever seen in your life, hence the nickname. He had a Hitler haircut and the broadest, farmer Gilesiest 'WezCunry' accent you've ever heard. Once he'd had his fourth cider he was anybodies and the prat to everybody's straightman all night. One of the favourite sports was getting him to stand on a table, with the lead from the jukebox in his hand singing Elvis into a German two pin plug. It sounded like Adge Cutler on whizz but what was truly remarkable was seeing this stick insect-like man contort his face and his body into what he thought were Elvis-like gyrations. Anyone entering the bar had to say as loudly as possible 'FFS whose playing Elvis on the box again?' 'Splitpin' loved it, he really believed he was Elvis and would talk about it the next day when sober. Well, one day we decided to convince him he was the unit hardman! It all started very easily, if he approached the bar a space would clear for him and someone would apologise for being in his space with a 'sorry mate, didn't mean it, no dramas, OK?' Splitpin being Splitpin he just soaked it up and believed, I mean really believed he was harder than a rapist's dick. We even engineered a situation where the unit hardman backed down to him. It cost us a few pints and a promise from 'Big Jim' that he'd leather the lot of us if he was being set up but we managed it fine. Then enter, straight from the factory.....Ladies and Gentlemen in the blue corner: P... 'Porky' J...... NIG and one of those straight forward no-nonsence types who are usually Yorkshiremen because they know how to be dour in Yorkshire lad. He walks in the bar and stands at bar ordering his pint and wondering why the barman is topping up all our glasses before he does his. Next thing in walks Splitpin, straight up to the bar and barges Porky out of the way. Barman makes 'mock' run over in worried fashion saying hold it Splitpin, hold it mate, he's new, he doesn't know, sorry mate. Splitpin makes a few noises about sorting the NIG out, how lucky that fcukin sprog is not to be on the end of a Splitpin right hook etc. We're all creased up but Porky just doesn't see the funny side and suddenly turns round and says 'let's box!' A hush fell on the room, this was getting very interesting, we waited with baited breath for Splitpin's next move whilst deciding that we'd let the NIG kick fcuk out of Splitters and then kick fcuk out of the NIG (as is only right and proper). Splitpin suddenly plays a brama! "Oym nart foytin yew near, Oi ain't gettin durn fer no manlawta, meet I in thar gym morra noyt." We translated this for the NIG and informed him he was to be in the 25 Regt Gym at 18.30 hrs. The Spy Corps bar was next to said gym and it would open at 16.30 so we'd all pile in there and leave the 'trainers' to their respective champs. Well several gallon of John Peel Bitter (utter shite but when washed down with Asbach, palatable) and a couple of bratties later we all pile over to the gym where the ring has been set up. The PTI is there laughing cos he doesn't think either of them have even one punch in them. The crowd reaches fever pitch as the two guys come in, all gloved up and in Army issue blue felt dressing gowns from the MRS. The PTI calls them to centre ring and gives them the spiel, sends them back to there corners then stands in the centre and with a downward chopping motion 'And box!' Splitpin stays in his corner bemused obviously wondering what on earth he was doing so 'Porky' tentatively leaves his corner and approaches 'Splitpin' just out of either's reach 'Porky' stops dead and bends at the waist so his trunk is parallel to the floor. We looked at each other in bewilderment, was he bowing? Was he really a martial artist, a deadly exponent of Kung Fu? He suddenly took two steps forward and windmilled his right arm over his head rather like someone swimming crawl. I swear he never connected with Splitpin but Splitpin's legs turned to water, his knees went and he just went down like a demolished tower block and squatted in his corner. The PTI tried to count him out but had to abandon his efforts in a fit of giggles because 'Porky' had now fallen on his arrse because his legs had jellied too! One flail which missed and both protagonists floored, you couldn't make it up. We all went back to the bar and got super-shitfaced after that. We had a reunion and it was on a day or two after a Joe Calzaghe fight. Someone asked if I'd seen the fight. 'No but I saw Splitpin and Porky.' Tears of laughter and beer and Asbach flowing like there was no tomorrow. Who were your unit fall guys?