I swear to God, if you ever want society to fall in real time, just go to the stadium in Great Britain.

Last night at the Tottenham Hotspur stadium? Pure human zoo. You might think that you went to a vast boxing party, but do not-welcome the biggest freakshow in Great Britain: Got Goramed Up, you think you are Tony Montana in a stone island jacket worth 900 pounds, your mother bought you in clarna payments.

First of all, can someone explain why British chicks dress like a fraudulent prostitutes from a low -budget Netflix document every time a boxing night is held? As seriously – a false tan, false eyelashes, false designer bags and dresses so tight that you can practically see what they had at lunch. A tip around a puddle of piss and vomiting on heels apparently cannot enter. Is this a national tradition? “Oi Becky, we’re in boxing, don’t forget about a slut costume!”

Secondly, literally nothing to see. I was about 40 meters from the ring, and I got my trouble, it is the perfect view of the back of your head waving a trivery, as if he were in Glastonbury. I didn’t see the impact. I couldn’t even say which blob was Eubank and which was Benn. There might as well be two mannequins fighting at the other end of the parking lot. Seriously, Dazn on a cracked iPad would be clearer.

And the guys? Oh God, guys. Each second was a Kieran or Callum, behaving as if he were a veteran of the scene from Green Street Hooligans, pushing his chest, nose dripping from coke, looking for an excuse to suppress someone over a spilled mug. Absolutely puree, jumping like toys, trying to start fighting containers, stewards, each other, call it. Each second word was “Bro” or “Bruv”, each third word was a slothful threat that nobody was sober enough to go back. A real group of masters. Absolute weapon.

And then the girls again, I’m sorry, but the girls … Christ. I saw better-dressed crowds except for 3-Z-1 kebab stores at 4 am, I don’t know who told them how rejected accessories to the Love Island was a good idea for a boxing party, but here we are-the foolish melting under the stadium’s lights, mascara, shoes in hand at 22:00, unable to barefoot on sticky (urine and vomit). on your own reflection.

To be straightforward, the atmosphere was as if you took football hooligans, handed them a economical coke worth 200 pounds and I told them that they were the main event. At some point, I think that full -scale riots almost began near the Balmy Dogs stand and to be straightforward, it would be more fun than actual fights … which I didn’t see again. Zero. Will Only a few wasted heads deep into the giant blurred screens and pretending to know what the hell is.

Stadium fights must end. Stadium fights are nonsense. You pay hundreds for nothing, surrounded by drunken, chanted clowns of cosplaying as hooligans from the 90s, and you go out with a headache, colored with a pair of trainers and a stern need to reconsider your life choices.

Next time? I stop at home with a chips bag, six pack and 4K TV.

No puddle, without defeated Kevins screaming “Smack” im, Bruv “, without regret. Only fight. Imagine it.