Jordan Peterson, Cathy Newman, it’s all been said hasn’t it?
Well, apparently not, at 4.55am this morning a man crashed through my balcony window, he was dressed all in black, he wore a balaclava and he carried a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray. Now I just love those, even the orange creams so I was all ears when he issued his ultimatum.
“I want a couple of thousand words, I want them now, Uncle Vicious, Newman, Peterson, now, write it now, the future of GP depends upon it.”
I thought at first it was Liam Neeson but something in his inflection, his demeanor, quiet but confident, put me in mind of Swiss Bob.
Before I could even ask the first question he was gone, whoosh, pfft, he was gone, like a soft breeze on a hot Moroccan night he was gone.
There was just a hint of Paco Rabanne in the air and I noticed the strawberry creams were missing from the otherwise exquisite collection of confectionery he had left, it was him, all my instincts told me that and I knew I had work to do.
Pausing only to throw on my fine silk robe, the navy blue one with the dragon on the back, I went downstairs to my study, I briefly stopped in the kitchen to make a Grande Intenso in my Dolce Gusto pod machine (blatant product placement, I won’t tell you again-SB).
In those early hours full of trepidation, Hazelnut Swirl and Fudge Duet I wrote this;
Tyson and Holyfield, Ali and Frasier, Sugar Ray and old ‘Hands of Stone’ Roberto Duran, all the great ones, the classic big fights, the ones you still remember but now you can also add Peterson and Newman.
He weighed in at 180 pounds and that was just his brain but she had trained for this one, she had trained down in the dirty streets, down in the mean streets of Herne Hill, in those early hours, she had sweated and ran for months, she ran in those still hours when the traffic is hushed, she was coming up from her usual fighting feather weight and she had bulked up to light weight, she was ready, this was her big one.
She practiced all her killer moves, she visualized them, she saw it happening, she feinted, she ducked, she weaved and she worked on her phrases.
Alt-right, they can’t fight, You’ll leave this town ‘cos I’m taking you down, Jordan will hit the floor on Channel Four.
So you hate transgender people.
So why can’t wimmin…
Didn’t you say…
So why can’t…
So you’re saying…
Seratonin, lobsters…
Let me think about that for a moment.
Reeee… reeee…reeee.
She had all the moves, she had all the phrases.
An uncle of hers had a fishmongers stall down in West Norwood, she spent hours down in his cold storage room slapping mackerel and plaice fillets, her hands were raw with the pain but finally she knew she was ready, she was ready for the big one.
“Let’s get ready to rumble!” cries little Jimmy Lennon Jr, the lights come up, Peterson comes in to sound of “The Eye of the Tiger”, impeccable in jacket and striped button down shirt.
Newman enters to the pumping sound of Middle of the Road’s “Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep”, the lefty fanboys go wild. “Cathy Cathy” that’s all you can hear all around the stadium. The soy is really flowing tonight.
Newman is in all blue fighting strip, hair wild and frizzy, eyes characteristically blank, she is now ready, ready as she ever will be.
They sound each other out warily in the early rounds, Newman jabs him with “Didn’t you say?”
“I never said that” comes back from Peterson, his footwork is good and he jabs her back from distance.
“Why do you hate wimmin so much, why oh why can’t they?” Newman snaps back but she is already, in the early rounds, in trouble. Her gumshield has to be adjusted by her corner.
Peterson is looking comfortable, like a kindly uncle sparring with his 8 year old niece but she is sweating now, she is working hard.
“But wimmin, but transgenders, why do you hate them?” she is flailing.
“Women are different, there are certain differences and I don’t hate trans.” a short right then an uppercut from Peterson.
He hits her again with “I’m a clinical psychologist, these are irrefutable facts.”
Newman’s corner are working hard in those precious breaks where she can regroup, she is breathing hard during those life giving minutes. She’s clearly behind on points now, she has to go for the big one, the KO, she swings wildly, “But didn’t you say?, she swings but she misses.
Peterson jabs again, 98% shared DNA with lobsters, Seratonin, bang bang, those jabs are ferocious now, Newman is on the ropes. She is in trouble, the eyes are truly blank now.
“So you’re saying lobsters, I’ll have to think about that” she slumps to the canvas.
“Gotcha.” he says almost regretfully but he is thinking “I’ll have to talk to Eddie Hearn, I can’t keep fighting these Romanian night club bouncers, it’s hurting my credibility, I need a proper opponent.”
The paramedics are in the ring, her management are spinning for a rematch within minutes. “She was brave but he used dirty tactics, he hit her with stuff like truth, she never had a chance. She was fighting Hitler and she’s like, Poland.” They are still feeding her life giving oxygen as she is wheeled into the ambulance.
It’s over, the baying crowd have left the stadium now, the empty crisp packets and the lager cans litter the floor, we are leaving the debris of that night behind but still the smell of popcorn hangs in the air and you just know this will be the template, this will be the way that frothing hyenas are dispatched in the future, no one from the Newman stable will ever fight out of their weight class again.
She could have been a contender but a degree in English and Marxism never beat the truth.
She could have been a contender but a bum is all she is.
Is that OK Bob? Can you let my kids go now please, keep the ex-wife but I really like my kids, well actually I only like one of them, but anyway Bob, please?
© Viciousbutfair 2018
