Y
OU’RE ABOUT AS MUCH GOOD AS A ONE-LEGGED MAN IN AN ARSE KICKING CONTEST, my father berated me when I was a kid. That was before I ran off with the circus and married the dark-haired fortune teller.
Now I used those mocking words as motivation as the sweat poured off me.
The one-legged man. My nemesis.
I rolled my neck and gripped onto the side ropes, tattoos bulging on my biceps. The trainer, who also mucked out the elephants, sprayed water into my mouth and after swilling it around, I spat it into the bucket.
The crowd’s chanting grew more intense under the soft yellow light of the big top, adorned in Union Jack flags, as wads of crumpled greasy notes were exchanged by gamblers in sharp overcoats and bowler hats.
I turned in the sawdust to face my next opponent and was gob-smacked as up he hopped.
The one-legged man. My nemesis.
My own bloody father, army moustache, waistcoat, scowl and all, Bosch shrapnel obviously doing its worst in the trenches of the Somme.
I pounded my gloves together and strode forward purposefully. Raised my fists and waited for the first bell.
My wife never saw that coming in her crystal ball.
