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I cut this out of the Bangkok Post while I was living at Master Chai's parents' house in Muongthongthani in the summer of 1994. The name of the column is The Rock, and it is written by Steve Rosse. I think it is one of the funniest things I have ever read. I hope everyone likes it.
GLADITORIAL GRAPPLINGS OF THE GLOVED KIND
My friend Barry invited me to go to the fights with him tonight. I told him that I had to go to the funeral of a close friend instead, and sinde I hate to lie, now I have to go find a close friend and kill him. Barry is a big enthusiast of Thai boxing, a sport that to my mind combines the worst attributes of a prayer meeting and a riot.
If you've never attended a Thai boxing match, let me first congratulate you, then fill you in on what you missed. First you sit down in a crowded arena that's hot enough to grow orchids in and smells like old socks. You're jammed in with about a thousand of the worst characters in the province, all of whom have had their personalities modified for the evening by whiskey and blood-lust. There is a dress code; every spectator must wear clothing that he's slept in for at least three nights.
Your ticket will bear the number of a seat in some stadiium destroyed by Allied bombers back in 1944, so you claim a spot on a hard wooden bench at random, and sit on your programme to keep the larger splinters out of your butt. Even before the boxers appear the crowd will be shouting and screaming and waving their arms. The yelling is in reference to the projected odds of the first fight; the arm waving is aimed at the mosquitoes that are ddrawn to the oceans of blood spilled at these events.
Soon the first pair of gladiators are led out into the ring by their phi liang, which translates as "nanny" or "nursemaid". At this point the band kicks in. The orchestra at a Thai boxing match consists of three very ancient and venerable men playing even older instruments; drum, cymbals and flute. Their job is to provide a noise like a train wreck, only louder and more prolonged.
The boxers begin a series of semi-graceful movements designed to pay homage to their dance teachers. They circle the ring, dipping and bowing, posturing and posing, making obeisance to the four cardinal points of the compass, the four primary elements, and the four Marx Brothers. After they've exhausted themselves this way, they're given a rest period during which the crowd commences betting. This activity is illegal, so everybody does it surreptitiously, by waving handfuls of money in the air and screaming out their bets at the tops of their lungs. A few bet on the outcome of the fight, but most bet on which fighter will be the first to jump the top rope and begin beating the hell out of the orchestra.
Eventually the two combatants are brought to the center of the ring and the referee explains The Rule. There is only one rule in Thai boxing: you cannot poke the other guy in the eye. Since people who make their living this way can't be too bright, they are made to wear thickly padded gloves in case they forget The Rule. The fighters return to their corners, do some more stylized praying and bowing, and get a few last minute good-luck tattoos applied by their coaches. The band wheezes up a squeaky crescendo, the gong sounds and the fight is on.
A Thai boxer's uniform consists of a pair of polyester trunks that go from his ribs to his knees, in any of a large assortment of unattractive colours. The trunks are so large because they need to accommodate a lot of advertisements, sold by promoters to a wide range of products. Most of the products will be in the health-care field, as befits an athletic event, like tobacco and alcohol. The size of the trunks and the weight of the appliqued corporate logos will dictate a fighter's style. Some fight with one hand and hold up the trunks with the other, while some prefer to throw a flurry of blows with both hands then back off and pull up their trunks.
In Thai boxing you are allowed to hit your opponent with anything except patio furniture, so there's a lot of kicking, elbowing, kneeing and butting with the head. Betting continues until the last round, or until one of the fighters, or a farang in the audience, attacks the band.
A win is achieved by knock-out or by points awarded by a panel of judges. All of the judges are blind but one; this makes bribery much easier. Points are calculated on an arcane system of judgement based on form, technique and how long a boxer lets his trunks slip down before pulling them back up. When a victory is announced both fighters raise their hands in triumph, strut around the ring bowing to the people who bet on them, and fall into each other's arms like brothers insttead of two guys who just spent fifteen minutes beating the crap out of each other. They stumble out of the ring and into an ambulance and everyone throws peanut shells at the band until the next pair of boxers appear.
An evening of Thai boxing goes on as long as there are still pairs of contestants willing to listen to the squeaking and squawking of the orchestra. They are carefully paired by height, weight and tattoos. While Western boxing ranks fighters by Bantam Weight, Light Weight, Heavy Weight, etc, a Thai boxer will fight in the Stubby Little Guys With Salamanders On Their Forearms class, or Wiry Little Guys With Monkeys On Their Backs, Really Skinny Little Guys With Tigers On Their Tummies, etc. The bands are ranked too, by titles like Terrible, Abysmal and Simply Awful.
While I don't enjoy the fights myself, I don't begrudge Barry his infatuation with the sport. Every year I wake up at 4:30 am on the first of February to watch the American Super Bowl, a game that Aussies like Barry say is for "seppo wimps". Imagine players being paid up to US$10,000 each to play perhaps 10 minutes of a game where they are allowed to wear more protective gear than plutonium miners. I agree with him on that point: it takes a lot of guts to climb into the ring wearing nothing but a pair of gaudy bloomers and face the music.
GLADITORIAL GRAPPLINGS OF THE GLOVED KIND
My friend Barry invited me to go to the fights with him tonight. I told him that I had to go to the funeral of a close friend instead, and sinde I hate to lie, now I have to go find a close friend and kill him. Barry is a big enthusiast of Thai boxing, a sport that to my mind combines the worst attributes of a prayer meeting and a riot.
If you've never attended a Thai boxing match, let me first congratulate you, then fill you in on what you missed. First you sit down in a crowded arena that's hot enough to grow orchids in and smells like old socks. You're jammed in with about a thousand of the worst characters in the province, all of whom have had their personalities modified for the evening by whiskey and blood-lust. There is a dress code; every spectator must wear clothing that he's slept in for at least three nights.
Your ticket will bear the number of a seat in some stadiium destroyed by Allied bombers back in 1944, so you claim a spot on a hard wooden bench at random, and sit on your programme to keep the larger splinters out of your butt. Even before the boxers appear the crowd will be shouting and screaming and waving their arms. The yelling is in reference to the projected odds of the first fight; the arm waving is aimed at the mosquitoes that are ddrawn to the oceans of blood spilled at these events.
Soon the first pair of gladiators are led out into the ring by their phi liang, which translates as "nanny" or "nursemaid". At this point the band kicks in. The orchestra at a Thai boxing match consists of three very ancient and venerable men playing even older instruments; drum, cymbals and flute. Their job is to provide a noise like a train wreck, only louder and more prolonged.
The boxers begin a series of semi-graceful movements designed to pay homage to their dance teachers. They circle the ring, dipping and bowing, posturing and posing, making obeisance to the four cardinal points of the compass, the four primary elements, and the four Marx Brothers. After they've exhausted themselves this way, they're given a rest period during which the crowd commences betting. This activity is illegal, so everybody does it surreptitiously, by waving handfuls of money in the air and screaming out their bets at the tops of their lungs. A few bet on the outcome of the fight, but most bet on which fighter will be the first to jump the top rope and begin beating the hell out of the orchestra.
Eventually the two combatants are brought to the center of the ring and the referee explains The Rule. There is only one rule in Thai boxing: you cannot poke the other guy in the eye. Since people who make their living this way can't be too bright, they are made to wear thickly padded gloves in case they forget The Rule. The fighters return to their corners, do some more stylized praying and bowing, and get a few last minute good-luck tattoos applied by their coaches. The band wheezes up a squeaky crescendo, the gong sounds and the fight is on.
A Thai boxer's uniform consists of a pair of polyester trunks that go from his ribs to his knees, in any of a large assortment of unattractive colours. The trunks are so large because they need to accommodate a lot of advertisements, sold by promoters to a wide range of products. Most of the products will be in the health-care field, as befits an athletic event, like tobacco and alcohol. The size of the trunks and the weight of the appliqued corporate logos will dictate a fighter's style. Some fight with one hand and hold up the trunks with the other, while some prefer to throw a flurry of blows with both hands then back off and pull up their trunks.
In Thai boxing you are allowed to hit your opponent with anything except patio furniture, so there's a lot of kicking, elbowing, kneeing and butting with the head. Betting continues until the last round, or until one of the fighters, or a farang in the audience, attacks the band.
A win is achieved by knock-out or by points awarded by a panel of judges. All of the judges are blind but one; this makes bribery much easier. Points are calculated on an arcane system of judgement based on form, technique and how long a boxer lets his trunks slip down before pulling them back up. When a victory is announced both fighters raise their hands in triumph, strut around the ring bowing to the people who bet on them, and fall into each other's arms like brothers insttead of two guys who just spent fifteen minutes beating the crap out of each other. They stumble out of the ring and into an ambulance and everyone throws peanut shells at the band until the next pair of boxers appear.
An evening of Thai boxing goes on as long as there are still pairs of contestants willing to listen to the squeaking and squawking of the orchestra. They are carefully paired by height, weight and tattoos. While Western boxing ranks fighters by Bantam Weight, Light Weight, Heavy Weight, etc, a Thai boxer will fight in the Stubby Little Guys With Salamanders On Their Forearms class, or Wiry Little Guys With Monkeys On Their Backs, Really Skinny Little Guys With Tigers On Their Tummies, etc. The bands are ranked too, by titles like Terrible, Abysmal and Simply Awful.
While I don't enjoy the fights myself, I don't begrudge Barry his infatuation with the sport. Every year I wake up at 4:30 am on the first of February to watch the American Super Bowl, a game that Aussies like Barry say is for "seppo wimps". Imagine players being paid up to US$10,000 each to play perhaps 10 minutes of a game where they are allowed to wear more protective gear than plutonium miners. I agree with him on that point: it takes a lot of guts to climb into the ring wearing nothing but a pair of gaudy bloomers and face the music.
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