Domingo, 13 de Julho de 2008

The mousy girl screams "Violence, violence!"

In many ways, the following photo is the culmination of every bit of fightyness in my entire life up until now. In other ways, it's as clear an indication you could want that I've gone completely mental. It's also one of the things I'll want deleted if I ever get accused of anything 'wrong' and am hounded by the Daily Mail.



But it's mainly a photo of the day I went to the Bristol BJJ open wearing a t-shirt with the Street Fighter logo on the front, then choked a man out to take third place in the tournament. It can't be coincidence that, in the five minutes before I had to fight, I was visaulising the incredible moment in Street Fighter 2: The Animated Movie, where Ryu gets set to Hadoken a furious Sagat in the chest at full power, while the music swells and the wind blows the grass nearly horizontal. And if it was, then ask yourself this: how come I lost the second match, when I wasn't thinking about Ryu?

Domingo, 6 de Julho de 2008

Togetherness

Three miniature stories:

1. Several years ago, at the start of my freelance career and for reasons to do with me wanting to impress potential employers, I ask a large professional wrestler to smack me in the head with a STOP sign. After some coercing, he obliges, I get a photo of it and I go on to have a glittering freelance career which leads me, several years later, to Tokyo. I go to the Tokyo Dome area because that's where the arcades are, and on a whim, go in the official New Japan Pro Wrestling shop. The stairwell's covered in signatures of wrestlers who've stopped by, scrawls and kanji and unrecognisable signatures - but the one that I notice at eye-level as I leave, is Mad Man Pondo. The STOP sign guy. I smile, and it's probably only my imagination that my head twinges slightly.

2. Several weeks ago, in Las Vegas for the launch of the UFC game, I'm pounding Caipirinhas at the bar mid-afternoon when a Japanese girl asks if I'm English. I am, but I'm also dehydrated and drunk enough to immediately start rambling on about fighting and how much I love it. She, of course, turns out to be an ex-international judo tournament competitor, and we spend ten minutes talking about ko-uchi-garis and seoi-nages before I have to take drinks back to my friends. I walk away with a renewed determination to take up judo.

3. Yesterday, I'm training for an upcoming tournament in a near-deserted dojo when a little fat guy with no front teeth turns up, carrying a drum and looking for the owner. 'I do guided meditation with him,' he says, 'I'm a medium, and a spiritual healer.' I don't laugh because my mum raised me right, but then he starts talking about how he boxed in the army. He gave it up after he got a kicking from a lance corporal: 'There were three hits - him hitting me, me hitting the floor, and the ambulance hitting 90.' We have a Right Old Laugh.

The point? I don't know. Maybe - again - that fighting brings people together, because the things you know everyone in it has put up with convinces you of their worth as a person. Maybe just that I mostly enjoy the way my life's turned out, and that it's a good life if you don't weaken.

Next week: less bullshit, more CHOKING PEOPLE OUT. Promise.

Domingo, 15 de Junho de 2008

Better Than The Undertaker

So that last post was a bit sombre, but I thought I'd lighten the tone by saying that I pulled off my first gogoplata in sparring yesterday. I've never even practised it before! I just saw the Undertaker do it on telly, and he doesn't even do it for real.



Yeah, I'd fucking mash him.

On Not Knife Fighting

So I was in Japan the other day, and I got to Akihabara about half an hour after a knife-wielding maniac stabbed and killed seven people. And inevitably, when I got back, one of my friends asked what I'd have done if I'd been there at the time. As if I hadn't asked myself already.

For the record, I don't think it's that clear cut. From what I hear, lots of people thought there was a traffic incident and that the maniac, unrelatedly, was just pushing through the crowd, so nobody realised that anybody was getting stabbed until it was much too late. But assuming I'd been there, and seen a guy stabbing people like a character from Final Fight, would I have charged in to the rescue?

Honestly, probably not. Best-case scenario, I might have thrown something at him.

Here's the thing: before I got into Brazilian jujitsu (not good for 'knife defence'), I did about two years of Japanese jujitsu, which involved a lot of 'knife defence.' It involved a variety of more or less stylised counters to the six 'main' knife attacks (straight stab, forehand and backhand slashes, lunge to the kidneys, stab to the groin, downward Norman Bates classic), and we sometimes practised with real knives.

It was completely useless.

The reason I'm putting 'knife defence' in brackets is that there's almost no such thing. After jujitsu I did a couple of months' kickboxing with Bob Spour, a very nice man who used to be in the SAS and has probably been in more fights than the entire jujitsu faculty. On the subject of knife defence, he simply waved a knife around – like you, I, or anyone else might if we were seriously trying to murder someone – and said 'How're you gonna defend against that?'

If anyone's still unconvinced, here's a little game you can play: give a friend a marker pen. Wear some old clothes, maybe some glasses if you're feeling safety conscious. Now, the rules are simple: you have to get the pen off your friend. He has to draw on you with it.

If, by the time you get the pen away, you've got scribbled around your chest, you're probably dead. On the inside of your arms? You're dead? On the outside? You're injured, maybe badly enough that you'll bleed to death? On the face? You're almost certainly dead.

For an idea of how damaging and stupid most self-defence classes are, imagine somebody who teaches you to play football by making you dribble around cones and do keepy-ups over and over again but never actually lets you play against anybody else. And when you can do the cones without hitting any and 100 keepy ups in a row he gives you a black belt in football, and tells you can beat anybody at football. And then you enter a football match for the first time, except that the rules are if you lose, you die.

Sexta-feira, 30 de Maio de 2008

F.X. Toole is my new hero

He's the man who wrote Million Dollar Baby, as part of a boxing stories collection called Rope Burns, and re-reading the intro last night (yeah, drunk, what) I came across this little beauty:

'About the only thing I haven't done in boxing is make money. But that hasn't stopped me any more than not making money in writing has. Both are something you just do, and you feel grateful for being able to do them, even if both keep you broke, drive you crazy and make you sick. Rational people don't think like that. But they don't have in their lives what I have in mine.'

Oh yeah and I got my blue belt in BJJ today. WAR ME.

Segunda-feira, 24 de Março de 2008

Vega Is A Fucking Cheat

Something I seem to have been talking to people about recently is that Vega is a fucking cheat. It’s easy to confuse this with other arguments, so let’s be clear: I’m not arguing that Vega is a massive ponce (he is) or an annoying character to play against (also true) or that I don’t like him (I don’t, but only in the same way I don’t like pantomime villains, ie I am aware that they need to exist). No. My problem with Vega is something else.

He’s allowed a fucking claw?

Seriously, how is that okay? Everybody else in the Street Fighter tournament is fighting with their hands and feet, and Vega not only wears a mask (to protect his beautiful face) but has a big, sharpened metal claw, like Mr Han from Enter The Dragon. Even Chun Li (who tends to fight Vega in the official adaptations, partly as a juxtaposition of her strong femininity against his perceived effeminacy, partly because he’s practically a rapist) takes issue with this in the comic version:

‘Your claw attacks are cheap and cowardly’.

And Vega responds:

‘How dare you? You’re in a world where desire and honour are the same, where the strong eat the weak.’

Which is all very well, Vega, except that using a claw sort of suggests that you’re the weak. And anyway, you’ll be pleased to hear that it’s at this point she learns the ki-ko-ken and fireballs him in his fucking face. A more sensible defence of Vega’s behaviour - used by everyone I talk to - is:

The other characters can do fireballs or make themselves electric. Vega can’t, so he needs something to even the odds up.

Which is clearly bullshit, and the reason I’m so upset. See, a claw isn’t too bad, but with this sort of evening-things-up morality you’ve got the thin end of a philosophical wedge that later allows sticks (Eagle), Chains (Birdie) and Sai (Sodom). Then, finally, you’ve got Rolento, who carries a baton and a knife, throws grenades and keeps a posse of guerillas above the playing area with a hook and a piano wire garotte. He's basically everything that's wrong about fighting games, and it's all Vega's fault.



Prick.

Sábado, 22 de Março de 2008

Sometimes

...I think that if I devoted as much time to cooking, or learning a musical instrument, or becoming a successful public speaker as I do to fighting, I would be brilliant at all of those things. Or at least, a more well rounded human being.

But then I remember that I don't care - don't really, actually care - about those things.

There's probably a whole nest of pathologies and rationalisations related to my affection for fighting, but that almost doesn't matter. Because like all good determinists know, seeing the strings doesn't make a difference.

Tonight, watching a dreadful display of windmilling between two D-rate kickboxers, a friend of mine, standing next to me but hypnotised by the action, whispered:

'I fucking love fighting, Joel.'

And all I could say was, 'Me too.'