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Tuesday, January 12, 2010

The Punchy Punchy Chronicles - THE FINALE

Okay, so this final recap of The Contender will be a little different to my previous efforts. And by that, I mean it will be unmitigated rubbish.

See, normally I sit down with a nutritious meal, a helpful beverage, my laptop and a number of leisurely, quiet hours in front of me. I eat, I drink, I tap, I think, I take sneaky screen grabs.
But last night, I actually went to the Sydney Entertainment Centre to see the fight (thank you, oh benevolent TV types). Let’s see the difference:

Nutritious Meal: FAIL. The mini meat pies in the secret room where drinks were free (I will always find the secret room where the drinks are free) were delicious, and I will be saving the streak of gravy I spilled on my top as a souvenir, but nutritious? No.

Helpful Beverage: WIN. Win plural. Win myself a couple of new kidneys.

Laptop: FAIL. I started scribbling notes on a highly technological piece of paper, but that made it impossible to concentrate on proceedings, and given that I only have two hands - one of which was holding a beer and the other of which was clamped over my mouth with amazement – I figured I should get my manual priorities in order. Just like life.

Leisurely Quiet Hours: Are you f*cking serious?

So. Y’know. Don’t expect much.

The Philosophy Of Hitting Blokes And That

I managed an in-depth interview with all of the Contender boxers who weren’t fighting that night. Well, I spoke to a number of them briefly, including the hosts. Oh, okay, I mumbled a couple of things under my breath and may or may not have been overheard.
Exclusive boxer soundbytes below.

Daniel & Israel: “G’day”.

Josh: “Anyone know where the gents is?”.

Victor: “Blog? What is ‘blog’?”

Les: “Blaaaaaaaah! Chantelle Dawson! Blaaaaaaaah!”

Charlotte Dawson: Something about boob tape.

Sonni: “My man! My woman! I just shake hands with you, man. I have a piece of paper say I not go near the woman. BOOYAKA!! BOO! BOO! BOO! BOOYAKA!”.


The challenge was keeping my eye on the boxing ring instead of just checking out everyone in the audience. For a while there it looked like hairdressing would come out in front (the variety!), with multicoloured fingernails coming up the rear (Oh. I see how that sounds now. Ouch), threatening the mastery of That’s Really Quite A Lot Of Tattoos, Sir, but it was seriously too close to call.

Of course, the real winner was Ed Hardy.



Oh, Nader. You’re a Knight In White Satin with a waxed chest. It may not necessarily be noble, but it totally works.

Oh, Junior. You so sparkly.

Oh, Garth. Nice haircut. Good to see you get some new eye-work, as well.

Aaaaah, Kariz. It will only be a shame if you get modelling work out of this if they insist on putting clothes on you.

OH SONNI. If someone had just told me you’d worn a leopard-skin suit that looked like it had actually been mauled by leopards AND a wooden mask WITH DREADLOCKS, I would have assumed it was a dream. An incredible, jungle-esque, batshit-crazy dream. BUT NO! I have proof. Fuzzy, black-and-white, didn’t-get-the-mask-in-shot, why-are-my-eyes-glowing proof.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight. On Sonni's jacket.

KOs and OKs

Did I blink, or did Nader and Junior’s grudge match only last as long as Bindi Irwin’s Greatest Hits album? See, apparently if there’s a head clash within the first three rounds of the fight, and there’s a crescent moon, a light westerly wind, enough polyester-cotton in the room and the blood drops from one of the boxer’s faces makes a pattern that looks ike a monkey riding a bicycle on the floor of the ring, it’s a technical draw and they stop the fight.

It’s true. I looked it up.

Punchy Punchy

It might have been the contact high from all the (awesome) testosterone in the room, it might have been the culmination of eleven weeks of build-up, or it might have been the way the stadium lighting glittered elegantly off Kariz’s abdominal muscles, but hot damn, I loved this fight. Garth got low and close to counteract Kariz’s reach, Kariz kept up with relentless body-shots in the clinch, and eventu – OH MY GOD, THERE’S TAHNEE FROM AUSTRALIA’S NEXT TOP MODEL. Girl just cannot keep away from blood at a Foxtel finale.

Despite being the underdog (or underbunny, more correctly), Garth emerged victorious, said something about starring in a feature film and winning an Oscar, accepted his gigantic novelty cheque from Charlotte Dawson, and no doubt went out to get irreversibly stonkered.

Nice one, Garfus.

So that’s it! I must say that between the incredible personalities, buff gods and questionable eating habits on the screen, the criminally heated and riotous goings-on on the Contender facebook page, the outstandingly generous and hilarious people I’ve met from the show and those little mini-pizzas with feta and olives on them, it’s been a hell of a ride.
Thanks for reading!



Anthony said...

You shouldn't stand that close to the Jungle Boy knowing his history with women, Jo.

Unless of course this is another edition of "what's Jo got her finger in now?".

sassy said...

HAH anthony.

to be honest I initially thought jungle boy's outfit was a UNITARD. and the fact that it was an entirely plausible option makes me so so happy.


Yas Bean said...

Well for one thing, at least they will be a lot less stressful now The Contender is over.

Anonymous said...

All fighters are prostitutes and all promoters are pimps. Larry Holmes 1949-, American Boxer

Many thanks Jo for a great ride. Lets all settle down now and look at this disturbing activity in its true light