Punch Drunk

This month we insisted on some ‘skillz’ with our free food. Hempsall and Red or Dead first reported for duty at the Midland for a scene straight out of “Goodfellas”...
Aggression can be productive. That might be controversial in these warm and cuddly, woe-betide-you days and in some quarters, but let’s clear the air.

Having said that, it’s probably better to experience pugilism on an empty stomach, so it’s a curious indulgence eating a three-course dinner while watching two healthy young men knock seven bells out of one another.

Art doesn’t come much nobler than The National Sporting Club, founded in 1891 by the 5th Earl of Lonsdale. With heritage beyond question our appetites were further whetted by host Ricky Hatton at The Midland Hotel as he supplied some of his own fledglings/fresh boxing blood for our delectation.

Hatton’s turn of phrase is much sharper than some of the genetic throwbacks that are more commonly predisposed to a life in the ring and his insight into the fraternal psychology of fellow Blues the Gallaghers was illuminating besides.

Round one was roasted vine tomato, feta cheese and red onion salad with parsley, capers, rocket and balsamic vinegar. This was as well executed as one of Ricky’s famous volleys to the abdomen only without the bruised kidneys, mercifully...

Round two was distinguished by our calling to our corner to bring the Argentinean Malbec, in place of the usual bucket and sponge, to temper the damage caused by the roasted rump of lamb with orange and rosemary glaze. This was served with a dauphinoise potato, which was as rich and creamy as we’d hoped. Altogether, particularly well executed when you consider that this is a kitchen at full tilt and catering for over 200 people.

Round three found us on the ropes and gulping for air like a beached Guppy when presented with the apple crumble with calvados custard. The seconds were threatening to throw in the towel as Hempsall stared glassy eyed from the canvas. Yet a second wind was suddenly found and an impromptu cheeseboard ordered.
Our waitress looked as if we’d just sworn at her in Tamil as was predictably the case with any deviation from a menu set in stone at a hotel catering for such a large gathering.

Nevertheless, within five minutes a selection of four cheeses arrived and proved to be perfectly acceptable. They were also room temperature – suggesting that they at least hadn’t been snatched from the fridge by a tired sous chef as some exasperated after thought.As we savoured cheese we were treated to three fights, each of six rounds, those rounds being two minutes long.

They were all lightweight fighters in their late teens and early twenties, young men experiencing their first taste of professional boxing. Each one fought like a warrior. However much we like to mock this kind of language ourselves, once that bell goes ding, stepping between those ropes takes proper heart at grass roots level.
As Hempsall was being ushered from ringside for poking a camera lens through the ropes in the final bout while the worse for drink he clattered into a stock fellow whose arm was outstretched across his path.

Barging past, Hempsall glanced back to see how the poor sap was taking it, only to be brought up short upon realisation that the arm in question belonged to none other than our host for the night.

Surprised all witnesses at the sheer velocity of his sixpence turning motion, an “Excuse me Mister Hatton, sir!” followed, hands wringing in best Cleese-like unctuousness. 
We bet he gets that all the time.