UFC 70- Nations Collide. Our man on the spot- Byron Wicker.

Manchester,

so much to answer for

The UFC comes to Manchester to set up shop at the house that Ricky built. The mighty Yanks were going to march in and win our hearts and minds with a show like we’d never seen before. And you know what- they pretty much pulled it off. A big shock and enough awe to score this as a points victory for the Ultimate Fighting Championship.

supersonic

All afternoon, the sunshiiiine ensured that the city centre streets were buzzing. In the interests of research, I took my wife along to test the UFC experience on a non-MMA bod. I needed to see the effect that the expertly marketed, high profile  supersonic event would have on a normal member of the public. I also needed to take her as she is sick of me pissing off to the fights every weekend and leaving her at home watching weird celebrity panels choosing which moisturised mummies boy will be given a part in a clapped out West End musical (These are TV shows- not something that happens at our house).

We set up camp in Shambles Square, home to the city’s oldest boozers. Steadily, the visible fight crowd began gathering outside the Oyster Bar. Mainly these were young men in groups of four clad in different branded t-shirts: Full Contact Fighter, Evolution, TapouT and Throwdown (No brand clashes- these young tough guys had obviously co-ordinated before leaving home). They extenuated the effect by wearing shirts that were two sizes too small and holding their iced Magniers to their lips for a long time to let the ladies see their biceps.(Celeb count: 1- Ade Akinbyi)

This is not the full picture though. The pubs were full of ‘normal’ folk. Couples, groups of lads watching the Man Utd game on telly and a good number of older guys. As the ale flowed and the chat got noisier, it became apparent that most of the people in the pub were heading up the M.E.N. Arena. Some of them seemed a little unclear about exactly what they were going to see, but there was a genuine buzz of anticipation around the gaff.

After a quick detour to Selfridges, (I was birded up after all) we headed for the place. The first impression when you get in the M.E.N.: Smoke… and Heat. The concourses were packed with eager fight fans who had decided that queuing for samosas and sucking cancer sticks were a better use of their time than watching the undercard. (Celeb count: 2- Christian O’Connell, A bloke with him who is often on list shows on Sky)

As ‘proper’ fans, we decided to head in. In the interests of research, (honest) hurtbusiness had opted for the £25 tickets to see what kind of experience the UFC is from the bargain basement seats. The first impression of the actual arena: HEAT. Unbearable heat. Probably due to it’s central location, the M.E.N. is steeply tiered to cram as many people into the smallest place possible. Great for atmosphere, but spare a thought for those of us who had seats in block 217- up in a far corner bang next to one of the six big screens. It’s a sweltering day and you’re within touching distance of the hot air pipes. The crowd downstairs are generating plenty of hot air. Warm, stale air that makes life in the rafters even more uncomfortable. It started to dawn on me why there were so many refugees in the smoke room round the back.

Fight time- Etim v Grice. There were still plenty of spare seats, but those who were there were getting well into it. From the crow’s nest, the view of the stand up was OK, but you had to switch to the screen whenever the fighters came together. You were there but not really part of it. Downstairs the crowd got behind Etim- cheering the localish boy to the rafters. Up in the rafters, we looked on jealously, wishing we’d forked out the extra cash to get us in the scene. Unlike at other Manchester sporting events, it was those in the better seats who were creating the buzz. The prawn sandwich mob were giving it some- the bring your own dripping sandwich mob were drowsy from lack of oxygen.

Someone else getting drowsy from lack of oxygen was Matt Grice as Terry Etim tightened a guillotine choke on him to pull of a stunning victory. The effect of seeing this is Megavision repeatedly in a stifling atmosphere is pretty intense. My Mrs said she wanted to go out the back. She is one of these people who absolutely hates smoke, so this should give you a clue about the heat level in block 217.

girlfriend in a coma

Often, you read about big events in the paper the day after and there’s a little paragraph about people collapsing due to the heat / excitement. I always assumed that this was just a way for journalists to fill a column. Any people who were a bit pissed or had a sit down through being tired were lumped together as overcome by heat or emotion in a bid to sensationalise a story. Surely people don’t really just flake out.

We’d managed three steps when it happened. Mrs hurtbusiness stopped. Her legs buckled and she went down on her arse. She wasn’t out, but she was in no state to continue. In the style of Victorian lady, it had all become too much for her.

After a minute on the step where she landed, I moved her to a spare aisle seat and went off to get her a drink. I returned after a couple of minutes with a plastic glass of water from the V.I.P. lounge. By this time, she was receiving expert medical attention. Some tached up bloke was offering her a pint of lager.

“Get that down you and you’ll feel fine”.

In times of crisis- the true Brit spirit shines through.

Later, she told me that, for five minutes, she couldn’t understand anything that was being said and everything happened in slow motion and in black and white. I was going to tell her that it reminded me of a day out I once had in Burnley, but I thought it might sound like I was making light of her traumatic experience.

We went out the back and dodged a steward to head right down to the emergency exit doors to suck some air in. Mrs hurtbusiness confided that, at first, she thought that Etim had strangled Grice. She couldn’t understand why he was celebrating and everyone was cheering and when Matt Grice had just been murdered. I suppressed a chuckle, but I suppose that, for a first timer, seeing someone get choked out is weird. Unlike a punch, any choking in a film results in death. Seeing someone being choked out for the first time, in close up on a 30 foot screen you can nearly touch, in intense heat is enough to make anyone swoon.

I was pondering whether this incident is the kind of thing the UFC should put in its marketing literature when a joint landed at my feet. Someone had hurriedly got rid of a half smoked joint by throwing it over the balcony and it landed a couple of yards from me. When I was in my teens, a healthy smelling joint appearing like this would have excited me as much as Patsy Kensit doing the same (Perhaps even more, as Patsy would not have survived the fall and any amorous activity I indulged in with her broken but still warm corpse would have got me in hot water with the authorities). Now, it was merely the signal to move on.

love will tear us apart

I had a dilemma.

On the one hand, my relationship with Mrs hurtbusiness. She had recovered, but passing out is definitely going to put a bit of a downer on your evening. Once you get used to it- it’s a doddle. I used to work with an epileptic who chewed the office carpet on a weekly basis. He’d dust himself off and carry on like nothing happened. When you’re a first time fainter, I reckon you’re going to feel a bit delicate. Surely I had to do the right thing and take her home. No way is she going to enjoy the rest of the night after this. It’s my duty to do the right thing.

On the other hand- IT’S THE UFC BABY.

I realised I had to come up with a compromise that satisfied all parties. Mrs hurtbusiness was putting a brave face on it, saying she’d be happy to stick it out while looking like she relished the prospect as much as she would a hot date with Phil Spector. I met her halfway by pitching the idea that we would leave before the Cro-Cop fight so we could miss the traffic. To be honest, it was no sacrifice for me. Like I told her, it’ll be a first round head kick knockout. I was off to a Muay Thai show the next day so I’d be seeing plenty of that biz, plus I wasn’t mad about spending two hours getting out of the car park after a full night in an oven.

slide away

We went back in and took our seats ready for the main card. My Mrs was too busy concentrating on remaining conscious to chat and the old blokes next to us were taking pedantic arguments about which is the best martial art to new depths of dullness. And did I forget to mention- it was hot. I was seriously ready to pitch the idea of us beating the car park rush by three hours and fucking the whole thing off as a bad job.  Right then, I spied a steward going round having furtive chats with couples who would then slide away. I reckoned they were being upgraded. There was always a chance they were being lured into some depraved white slavery / snuff movie type deal but, if the alternative was an evening in block 217, I was up for it.

I went over and asked the bloke what the deal was. He told me he had some seats to fill downstairs, but he only had a pair left. Rising above the fact he thought I was in some way associated with the pricks I’d been sat next to, I asked him how much this was going to set me back. Nothing- he said. Sold.

hallelujah

Whether it was company policy, a ploy to fill up visible seats for T.V. or just a guy doing random good deeds…frankly, who cares. We were off to the promised land baby. Downstairs, row T. In the thick of it, not watching from above. Luxurious seats firmly in the three figure price bracket. And you could breathe. You could breathe real, almost fresh, barely recycled air. Our time on the darkside made us all the more grateful and, as you are well aware, free stuff always tastes great.

Fight Time – Kongo v Silva, Marchida v Heath.

Boring. Boring.

The fights were falling well short of the hype. Each was preceded by the big screens showing the fighter previews you get on all the UFC broadcasts. These were seamlessly followed by the ring walks and Bruce Buffer’s quaint announcements. The whole thing was superbly managed. Due to the sterility of the cage action; I was less interested in the fights and more interested in the behaviour of the crowd. Like all upwardly mobile types, I had turned my back on my roots and totally blanked out the docile drones upstairs.

24 hour party people

In his 1895 work, The Crowd: A Study of the Popular Mind, Gustave Le Bon states that crowds are primitive and irrational.  Individuals develop a sense of anonymity whilst they lose their sense of responsibility. Crowds are inherently susceptible to suggestion, and thus it is easy for the leader of a crowd to unlock what Le Bon called "ancestral savagery", and have the crowd act in violent ways. Simply put- people act like twats and follow the person with the biggest gob. This why we had the Nazis, football hooliganism and Pop Idol.

A camera crew circled the arena encouraging people to scream, wave their hands and go generally radio rental. Good folk, who no doubt tut and mutter ‘typical Yanks’ when they see such behaviour on the box, were suddenly acting like the front row of a Slipknot gig- despite the fact that nothing was actually happening.

During the dull fights- three factions emerged.

Group One- ‘real fans’. (9.99%) Helpfully explaining to less informed people the skilled intricacies of what was going on when, to the untrained eye- it appeared to be a tedious stalemate. Making sure this was done in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear how clever they were. Much as I tried to resist- I must confess that I fell into this category at times.

Group Two- (0.01%) The American girl behind me who directed extremely long, complicated and loud BJJ instructions at the fighters. She was obviously hoping to impress people- and it sure worked on me. 

Group Three- (90%). BOOOOOO. Slow hand clap…BOOOOOO. Fucking hit him. Get on with it.

Much of the Group One mob shook their heads and bemoaned the actions of the others (Forgive them, they do not understand).

I have to admit, I drifted into the Group Three fold. One explanation is Le Bon's thesis: that my self became submerged in the mass and I was stripped of my civilised modesty and fell in behind the loudest beasts. Another explanation is: the fights were toss and the crowd were doing their best to rev them up.

Big events encourage this kind of behaviour. Safety in numbers and detachment make people think it’s OK to hurl abuse. Pull that kind of stuff at a local show and there is an even money chance the lad you are barracking has a brother or clubmate within three seats of you.

last of the famous international playboys

The celeb count was frighteningly low. Thankfully, one man was willing to put his head above the parapet and feed our fame hunger. There was a kerfuffle as a figure passed through the crowd at the far end. A heavy set, balding black man in a light suit. My neighbours seemed uncertain as to who he was. From a distance it dawned on me that he looked like Jack Johnson. As the former Heavyweight champ died in a car crash circa 1951- I realised this was unlikely. Mrs hurtbusiness turned to me:

“Is it Eubank?”

It couldn’t be. It was. Of all the celebs rumoured to be turning up; only a former WBO world champ had the decency to come down and milk the attention. Eubank stood, for no apparent reason, in the middle of the arena for about five minutes. He then returned to his box- shaking hands with people if they liked it or not. The whole pointless incident was kind of a metaphor for the emptiness and desperation of modern life. Either that or I’m just killjoy.

everybody’s happy nowadays

The screens alerted us. It was time for the real main event. It wasn’t billed so but, for everyone bar the Croatian contingent and the anoraks, UFC 70 was all about Bisping. Elvis entered to a reasonable amount of abuse. Bisping returned as the conquering hero. He sprinted through the arena like a man possessed. Always a bad sign. He seemed too keyed up. Too eager to please the expectant horde. The fight itself was brilliant. I’m not going to over analyse or go over the implications for the fighters and the promotion. I am a Michael Bisping fan. I want him to win because I think he’s a good bloke and I think his success will benefit UK MMA. Of course he needs to improve, but on the night, the fact that he nearly ended up on the wrong end of an upset made the fight more exciting and the victory sweeter for the M.E.N. massive. For the duration of the Elvis/Mike fight, the different factions in the crowd united to cheer on our guy against the Aussie. You can make up your own mind if that’s a positive thing or not. The fact is- there was genuine excitement throughout the joint and a genuine outpouring of joy at the result.

made of stone

We were up. The place pumping. Arlovski v Werdum. As at the beginning of each fight, a large number of mainly younger fans ran down the gangways to slap hands with the fighters as they entered. This is something that goes totally over my head. This kind of hero worship that seems to be part of the UFC. I am a fan of fighting. I have full respect for all fighters and huge admiration for skilled and tough fighters. Despite this, I have no desire to run down and reach out in an attempt to grope their sweaty bodies. I find seeing Chris Eubank mildly interesting- but I don’t feel the need to whoop when I see him in the flesh.

The Arlovski fight was another timid mess. The only excitement was when Bisping returned to watch and was given a rousing reception. At the final bell, Mrs hurtbusiness and I headed for the exits. I was unconcerned about the Cro-Cop fight. As I told her, Bisping was the story tonight, everything else was just padding. As I explained on the way to the motor, having Cro-Cop top the bill is patronising the UK fans. They think they will accept any old crap as long as a name is involved. Much as I am susceptible to being submerged in the crowd in the way Gustave Le Bon described- being part of a mass who go crazy to a Simon Le Bon song as a chiselled, fantasy cop struts to the cage is, to be frank, a little too puffy for my liking. The UFC are harping back to bad old days of Chris Eubank himself. Saturday nights used to see him v the bum of the month. A foregone conclusion dressed up as a fight with the highlight being a Tina Turner singalong. The only difference is- Cro-Cop would get rid of the nobody he was up against in a minute. There’s no point in sticking around.

With hindsight, you can say my analysis of the fight is proof I am an idiot or proof that MMA is the most exciting sport out there.

I Started Something I Couldn't Finish

Overall, you have to say the UFC 70 Nations Collide was a massive success. The Ultimate Fighting Championship put on colossal shows and manage to run them like clockwork. A big crowd turned out and cheered on an exhilarating home town victory. Having said that- I feel a lot more at home watching UK based promotions. For me, the UFC are similar to the guys who play across Manchester at Old Trafford. Man U games attract fans from all over the world. These people flock from Malaysia and Tokyo to see the likes of Giggsy, Scholesy and, in the past, Becks. They’ll travel half way round the globe to check out the Red Devils, but can’t be arsed to watch their local teams. The are fans of the stars rather than football fans. I saw plenty of that mindset last Saturday. The crowd were UFC fans. They were there to see the big names. The cheer and scream their every move. At the end of the day, I’m a fan of fighting rather than a fan of star fighters. I like to get close to the hurtbusiness action rather than close to the star fighters. I’m a smaller show guy.

The UFC is the biggest show in the world. It is slick and impressively put together. The problem is the only thing that really matters. Of the fights I saw, the Etim and Bisping fights were great. In each of them, both fighters got stuck in, they could have gone either way and ended with stoppages. I think they were both over keen to impress the crowd, got in trouble then dug deep to win through. They fought like battlers not like people with one eye on their career progression. All the other fights I saw suffered because of the size of the UFC. The fighters were too worried about getting an L (and a UFC P45) to get close to each other. In the current situation, the UFC is seen as the only game in town. 'Name' fighters are so terrified of the consequences of losing- the fights suffer. The unique selling point of Ultimate Fighting- that unlike other sports the guys always go in for the finish rather than for the safe win- is being lost.

Despite some reservations- I enjoyed my night out at the M.E.N. and would recommend that you turn out to one of the forthcoming UK shows to experience the UFC for yourself.

(Please pay the extra for a decent seat-you won’t regret it).