You know that feeling when you buy a coffee, and you’re like, “Wow, that’s a lot for hot water and beans”? Multiply that by a hundred. The prices for Eubank Jr vs. Benn are like the guacamole at Chipotle—extra, and you pay for it anyway.
I called my mate Dave, who’s a savvy bloke, and he said, “Mate, I’ve seen cheaper holidays to Spain.” And he’s right. You could fly to Malaga, drink sangria, watch the fight on a pub telly, and still have change for a paella. But no, we want the live roar of the crowd and the smell of nervous sweat.
The Queue That Never Moves
Remember queuing for a nightclub when you were 21, and the bouncer was just slow-walking people in? That’s the ticket queue. You log onto Ticketmaster (or whatever selling platform you trust with your soul), and there’s a little message: “You are in a queue. 54,000 people ahead of you.” Fifty-four thousand! That’s more people than live in my entire town.
I once watched a guy in front of me get a ticket, and I actually cheered. Then he turned around, waved, and said, “Sorry, mate, last one.” It was like missing the last bus home—defeated and oddly hungry for a kebab you don’t deserve.
