The preliminaries weren't much. A couple of footballers were making their debuts, one as a heavy and the other as a light-heavy. They won against opponents even less skilled than themselves. Seemed to me they should have stuck to football. The six-rounder before the main event was better. A fast, rangy Lebanese lightweight named Ali Ali boxed the ears off a stocky opponent for four rounds before unwisely deciding he could mix it in the fifth. A solid left rip to his unguarded mid-section put him down and after taking an eight count he walked into a straight right that ended his night.

Patrick arrived just as the referee reached ten and the crowd, as crowds will, roared its approval of the KO.

'Evening, Cliff. How's it going?'

'Pretty good. Ali should've stayed on his bike.'

'You're right.' Patrick, wearing a dark suit over a white T-shirt, looked around. 'Bloody good house. We'll make a quid.'

'You're the promoter?'

'One of them. I've got a piece, as the Yanks say.'

'Expecting any trouble security-wise?'

'Never can tell. Boxing ' n' booze are a potent combination. Fancy a drink?'

The ringside area was catered for by a squad of waiters wearing a smarter version of the Pavee uniform, and the rest of the auditorium was serviced by a bar at the back. I don't like the idea of drinking while men are sweating and hurting each other and I refused. Patrick nodded, ordered mineral water from the waiter, and settled back as Sullivan and his party came down the aisle to the ring.

As always, the half-naked women who hold up boards for the round numbers waited to greet the fighters. It's a fairly recent addition to the circus, geared to television, and the traditionalists don't like it. But if they'd had the idea in the old days and could've got away with it, they'd have done it.