“Ya see now lad, there’s a difference between boxin’ an’ brawlin. Brawlin is when ya get yer mates together and ya go have a nice cold pint and ya look for trouble. An just like the pikey that went a lookin for booze, ya always find it. Ya pick out a little pointy nosed cunt and ya give him a good whippin and then wash it down with another cold pint. Tha’s brawlin for ya.”

“But boxin. Well, boxin’s when ya drink nothin but water, and it’s tha sweetest thing that ever touched yer lips. Boxin is when ya never see your friends, when the bag and the ratty gloves become yer friends. Boxin is when you become a little crooked nosed cunt, but you’re the little crooked nosed cunt. Boxin is when ya only replace your right glove, so they think ya hit more with yer left. Boxin, lad, true Boxin, is when the whole town is behind ya, and ya can’t sleep at night on account of their cheering in yer head. It’s when ya would rather die in that there ring, then disgrace yer people.”

“That, lad, is Boxin. Do nah forget that.”