NO RULES IS NO RULES | 02
Not enough violence
To put it lightly, Bash has been on a bit of a losing streak as of late. People in the scene accuse him of being washed up. Bash argues that he doesn’t care win or lose. He’ll fight anyone anywhere, sober or not. He claims to see No Rules as a game. A bit of a laugh. Problem is, Bash is 45 now. That’s 18 years Joey’s senior. The potential risk of irreversible damage is considerably higher for a man of his age.
A black Audi hatchback with two younger lads in bubble North Face coats pulls up to the carpark. We’re all huddled waiting for instructions. It’s fully dark now. The lads jump out and introduce themselves. It’s clear they’re not fighters, just messengers. In thick northern accents they explain that Joey and his guys are to go with them, and I’m to follow behind in my car.
“Happy days boys. Let’s get it on then,” says Joey. “It is what it is.”
He flings on his jacket and jumps into the back of the Audi with one of his friends. I follow in my car. Joey’s entourage follows in theirs. We drive through the middle of Hastings in a small convoy. Our headlights flood past neon petrol stations and blocks of flats for what feels like ages. It’s probably not.
We arrive at a built up residential street close to the fight destination. A dozen of Bash’s people are waiting. A blur of North Face and Stone Island. Bash emerges from the middle of his crowd. He’s about six foot tall, broad, covered in tattoos. He’s half Arab, half white, and has a face worn from years of brawling. Coincidentally, he too has a 666 and a crucifix on his neck.
Joey hops out the car. He’s aggressive. All action. Ready to go.
“Are we having it here then or what?” he says to Bash, pushing past people who’re trying to keep him back.
Joey is transformed. The mad-as-a-hatter smiley demeanour is gone. He now looks like an angry dog let out a cage.
“This isn’t the place!” cries one of Bash’s entourage, over and over. “This isn’t the place! No, this isn’t the place!”
He’s a big lump from up north who previously fought Bash and won. He’ll be the makeshift referee for this fight.
Joey and Bash have a few words. Calls for calm and “let’s do it properly!” from the gathering crowd.
Bash turns back with his guys, and they move off the pavement and down a side road. Bright headlights spill out from the shadows. That’s where the fight’s happening. The makeshift ref emerges a couple minutes later and waves for us to come. Joey pulls off his coat and tenses his shoulders, striding up the path. He’s wearing a t-shirt by the underground fight wear brand Militant, an emerging force in the British hooligan and No Rules scene. The logo is a knuckle duster wide across the chest.
“What the fuck is going on and where the fuck is it happening?” he growls.
We turn a corner. It’s here. About 20 square feet of fuck all.
The scene is lit with headlights from a boxy Land Rover Defender parked at the back. The floor is rough concrete, jagged and specked with grit for wear and tear. If your head hits this, it’s bursting open.
Bash is stood at one end of the space, moving on his feet, fluttering the Defender’s headlights. Joey bowls in. His back is up like a dog when a firework goes off. At each side people stand watching, their phones up ready to record.
“Come on Bash!” shouts a small woman in a big coat.
Her phone torch is on bright. She’s stood next to Bash. I recognise her. I’ve seen her online. It’s his wife. She’s his biggest fan and can be heard cheering him on during most his fight videos. It’s kind of romantic.
Joey’s boys cheer him on as he approaches Bash.
“Come on Joey, south Wales!” one of them yells.
There’s a brief pause. Both fighters stare at each other for a second. The tension is in the air heavy like fog. Then bang.
Bash leaps toward Joey, throwing a spinning back kick. It misses. Joey throws a stiff right jab into Bash’s face. He’s knocked off balance. Dropped. Bash hit’s the concrete. Joey moves over him but stops. For whatever reason, both fighters decided beforehand that they wanted to do No Rules, but with one rule… They wanted a standup fight, as in no groundwork, but with no gum shields. Makes no sense to me, but that’s the chaotic realness of No Rules.
The ref moves in so Bash can stand up. Off they go again. Joey kicks Bash and throws two huge hooks. Bash kicks Joey and throws back. They both end up in a tangle of sweeping punches. Some miss, some land. Joey is all power, pushing forward, grabbing, punching. Bash looks tired, but he’s fighting.
The crowd is on fire at this point. The two men swing it out in the shadow of the headlights. After around a minute Joey grabs Bash and lands three solid jabs in his jaw. Bash goes down again and scrapes his head off a wall. The ref lets him get up but he shakes his head as he does. It’s over. Joey’s fuming.
“Is he done!? Is he done!?” he asks over and over. “Is that it?”
His eyes are wired with adrenaline. His fists still clenched. Joey wants more.
“You seem disappointed,” I say to Joey.
“Yeah I’m fucking disappointed!” he snaps.
Bash has had enough, though. The fight is over.
TO BE CONTINUED…