Monday, 18 November 2024

The Price of Membership: On Tyson/Paul


 

In 1910, the year of the historic Johnson-Jeffries title bout, the artist George Bellows exhibited a painting he called Both Members of This Club. Like Bellows' best-known work, Stag at Sharkey's, the painting is an intense, erotically charged depiction of a prize-fight at Sharkey Athletic Club, a venue across the street from Bellows' residence in New York City. Unlike Stag, it depicts a fight seemingly nearing completion, with one competitor visibly falling under his opponents' blows: and, more significantly, one of the two fighters (the one who appears to be winning) is black. 

You could be forgiven for seeing, in the title of this picture, a sort of paean to pugilistic brotherhood: these two men, so unequal in the world outside the arena, are equals within it - indeed, the racism that divides them is eliminated to such a degree that the man who, outside, would be required to perform deference to his so-called superior can, instead, rough him up with impunity, to the visible delight of the well-dressed crowd. But such a reading ignores not just the toxic atmosphere surrounding the Johnson-Jeffries fight (the event which gave us the phrase 'great white hope'), but also the irony intended by Bellows in the title, an irony you can only appreciate if you understand the legal status of boxing in New York at the time it was painted. 

In his article for the Syracuse Law Review, 'Jim Crow & the Regulation of Boxing in New York State', Albany Law School Government Lawyer in Residence Bennet Liebman outlines the murky legal status of prize-fighting in the years prior to the establishment of the first State Athletic Commission in the Frawley Law of 1911, just one year after Bellows exhibited Both Members. It is a history of official illegality and unofficial circumvention, which pivoted on the distinction between private and public. The 1900 Lewis Law, supported by Theodore Roosevelt, had outlawed public boxing matches. If, however, members of an athletic club wished to engage in a bout with their fellow club members in attendance, this was their own private affair. 

And this created the loophole exploited by clubs like Sharkey's, which would swear in fighters as 'members' for the duration of their bouts, present them as such to their audience - and rescind their membership as soon as the fight was over. Far from being an ode to warrior equality, the title of Bellows' painting is a bitter acknowledgement of hypocrisy and exploitation. On paper, there is no division between the 'club members' beating each other to a pulp in the ring and those who watch them do so, grinning with delight; but the reality is that their membership ends at the ring ropes and with the final bell. And, beyond his merely expressive skills, the reason Bellows' painting has endured is that it captures a truth about boxing in the United States: that it is a sport which, shielded by the merest pretence of Corinthian athleticism, has always been a spectacle of exploitation and exclusion, in which the privilege of membership in the club that is America depends not so much on merit or virtue but on how well black and working class bodies can thrill the white and well-fed faces in the crowd. No fighter's career has embodied that truth more than Mike Tyson: and the circumstances of his most recent bout, an undignified shuffle around the ring with a vacuous YouTube celebrity, tell us nothing good about the state of membership in Club America today. 

Like every great black boxer since Jack Johnson, Tyson represented a challenge to white audiences that went beyond his technical superiority. Each fighter has embodied that challenge in a different way, depending on their times: before Tyson, for example, Muhammad Ali confronted racism with a clear moral force that chimed with the age of the Civil Rights movement and black liberation, refusing to fight in Vietnam, changing his name as a result of his engagement with Islam, and entering legend by reclaiming the title he was stripped of in his epic fight with George Foreman in Kinshasa, where his rope-a-dope strategy saw him transition from a dancing trickster into the embodiment of the MLK-era maxim that you had to learn to take a punch to win. 




Michael Gerard Tyson, however, came up not in the Civil Rights era but Reagan's America, an epoch of vicious reaction, of the Rambo and Death Wish sequels and 21 Jump Street, an era in which white anxieties about race were now embodied in the monstrous figure of the untouchable street thug, against whom law and decency were powerless. And no thug seemed more unstoppable in the white imagination than Tyson, who went 37-0 in a five year streak from 1985 until his shocking loss to James 'Buster' Douglas in 1990, most of those wins by knockout, sixteen of them in the first round. I can't speak to what Tyson meant to black communities during that time, but I can tell you that many white people feared and hated him, and were desperate to see him defeated - if not by a new Great White Hope then by another black man who could be deemed in some way to embody the alleged virtues we thought Tyson scoffed at. I remember the excitement in the UK when one of the men anointed for that task was our own Frank Bruno, a gentle giant (who would, years later, reveal his struggles with mental illness) who would nevertheless, we let ourselves believe, have the reach and strength to overcome Tyson's brutal punching power and restore the Heavyweight Title to the country that gave the world the Queensberry Rules. Tyson won by TKO in the fifth round. 

This desperation to see him defeated was a key element in why so many of us were so fascinated by Tyson. He bought his way into the club by exploiting that fear, eschewing the flamboyant antics of an Ali in favour of a grim, silent stare across the ring at his opponent. Tyson's trainer Cus D'Amato schooled him in the exploitation of fear, both his own and that of his opponent, and during that first incredible run of pro fights, you can see that fear in the eyes of his opponents as, having been sent to the canvas by one of Tyson's devastating strikes, they find themselves having to decide whether or not to get back up and risk taking more or stay down for the count. 

But Tyson's fears went deeper than just those he confessed to feeling about his opponents pre-fight: prior to his discovery and training by D'Amato the softly-spoken Tyson had been a target for bullies, and had to fight to defend himself on the streets long before he ever did professionally. To some degree those early fears never left him, and the fame boxing brought him added a new one: the fear of what would happen when he was no longer the unstoppable force, when the audiences who clamoured to see him - many of whom, he knew, were hoping to bear witness to his downfall - would finally see someone club him to the canvas, and watch him fail to find his feet before the referee called ten. 




That those fears lay at the root of the ugly behaviour Tyson exhibited during his glory years does not absolve him for that behaviour. He indulged in drugs so heavily that he had to wear a prosthetic to pass piss tests, he brawled with other fighters in the street, and abused his first wife, Robin Givens. And in 1992, with his star fading after the loss to Douglas, he was convicted of the rape of beauty pageant contestant Desiree Washington, and sentenced to six years in prison (of which he served less than three). However much sympathy we might extend Tyson for his troubles, and however much we might praise the humbler, more reflective man he has become in recent years, that rape conviction ought to serve as the terminus. 

(That it did not at the time, like the title of Bellows' painting, says more about the ugliness of boxing than it does about that sport's capacity for redemption. Tyson could still fight, could still draw crowds and buys on pay-per-view, and so he was once more declared a member of the club, a privilege which would only seriously start to be rescinded after he was disqualified for biting Evander Holyfield's ears in their second fight. Even then, some venues were still willing to give Tyson a chance, and it would only be after a run of four losses and his refusal to leave his corner for the seventh round of his fight against Kevin McBride that he would find his name definitively crossed out of the rolls. Or so it seemed.)

So why, then, when I contemplate the recent spectacle of Tyson's bout with Jake Paul, do I find myself feeling sorry for him? Well, despite having just written six paragraphs about the man, I don't really even like Tyson all that much. It's just that, in the great tradition of the antihero, I simply despise Jake Paul much, much more. 




Why do I hate Paul more than a convicted rapist? Well, for one thing, the only difference between Paul and Tyson on that score may be  the word convicted. Paul has already been accused of sexual assault by two different women, and given his praise for confirmed rapist and wife-beater Donald Trump, who Paul has described, in a statement which shows what a sickening orgy of idolatry American evangelicalism has become, as one of 'God's angels' and a 'saviour of the world', I'd say it's a safe bet there will be more. Plus, Paul's father Greg is a huge transphobe, and in my experience there's no stronger predictor of someone being an absolute danger than opposition to trans rights. Despite his nickname of 'The Problem Child', it's fairly clear from everything Greg says about his offspring that Jake is very much a daddy's boy, and hence no fan of bodily autonomy. Hell, let's face it: the man just engaged in an act of elder abuse that was livestreamed on Netflix. That doesn't inspire much confidence in what he gets up to behind closed doors. 

But Paul's romp with Tyson disgusts me not just because Paul is a horrible person, a man who cultivates the tattooed and bearded look of the racist freaks who move cocaine out of Fort Bragg, but because Paul's seeking this fight is, in its own way, an application for club membership. Despite a pro career which has consisted largely of fights with other YouTube celebrities and washed up MMA fighters, Paul desperately wants to be considered a legitimate fighter, and has used the once-feared Tyson as a prop for his narcissism. It doesn't matter that nobody who actually gives a damn about boxing was convinced by the spectacle of him winning on points against a 58-year-old man; it doesn't matter that the women's match on the undercard, between Katie Taylor and Amanda Serrano, is being lauded by real fans as the true main event of the evening: it doesn't matter that saying it in 2024 doesn't mean anything like the same thing it meant in 1989, Jake Paul can say he beat Mike Tyson and to him, that's all that matters. He and Iron Mike are now, according to the record books, both members of this club. 

But Jake Paul, the son of a wealthy realtor who grew up in a neighbourhood of suburban mcmansions where, in the words of one of his fellow YouTubers 'all you have to worry about...is how mean the chihuahuas are', was already a member anyway. Where Tyson's father walked out on him and his mother before he could even walk, Daddy Greg supported his little boy's bid for vacuous fame every step of the way. For Tyson, boxing was a lifeline that saved him from the streets and, in all probability, an early grave; for Paul, it's a new revenue stream, a chance to diversify his brand, and, perhaps most importantly of all, a way to feel more like a man. 




And in pursuit of that feeling, Paul tempted Tyson not just with money, but the chance to add another professional match to his record. Like the stuffed shirts at Sharkey's, he held out the opportunity to bathe in the spotlight to a man who held none of the advantages that he grew up with, for his own sordid gratification. I was going to end this essay by comparing Paul to one of the most visible figures in the crowd in Bellows' painting, the grotesque, inanely grinning man who seems enraptured by the battle going on before him, but I realised this would be unfair - unfair, that is, to the man in the picture who, whatever else, at least has the decency to be enjoying the combat vicariously. No, there is a better figure with which to compare Mr Paul. 

Jake Paul grew up in a mansion, doted on by a parent who facilitated his introduction to the wider world. At some point in his life, Paul discovered combat sports and was enraptured by the sight of men in battle. And he now uses his fortune to pay some of those men to go a few rounds with him, because it makes him feel strong and tough and good about himself, and increases his level of testosterone. 

Jake Paul is neither of the men in the ring in Both Members of This Club. He isn't even one of the men in the crowd. Jake Paul is John du Pont



But then, even that comparison is unfair, really. After all, du Pont didn't need us to watch. 

Tuesday, 12 November 2024

From the Files of the Republic Intelligencers: Artefact Cluster KO1 - 'Kirkoswald Spheres'

An example of an artefact belonging to the Kirkoswald Cluster, showing the peculiar logo and 'Coat of Arms'


Classification and Clearance: Artefact Cluster KO1 is a collection of objects discovered in the village of Turnberry, in the vicinity of the TideFate Oceanic Research Complex owned and operated by POI WESTPHALEN, in the Civil Parish of Kirkoswald, South Ayrshire, Republic of Caledonia. At present, knowledge of Artefacts in the KO1 cluster is to be restricted to Intelligencers of Grade C1 or above; information pertaining to the existence of objects in the cluster may be shared with Assets Rated A+ or higher only where such disclosure has been permitted by Intelligencer SERAPH

Description: KO1 cluster artefacts are small white spheres resembling golf balls, decorated with the logo of a non-existent golf course (or resort?)  known as 'Trump Turnberry'. This logo consists of the course/resort name stamped in a copperplate font, underneath a somewhat exaggerated illustration of a 'Coat of Arms' of the sort maintained by the former College of Arms under the Windsor Regime, albeit with a number of errors suggesting it was designed by someone unfamiliar with the conventions of genuine Old Regime heraldry.  Most of them have been recovered from bodies of water in or around the village of Turnberry and the aforementioned TideFate Oceanic Research Complex by individuals diving, fishing or swimming, though on one occasion one such object was observed travelling through the air in a manner consistent with having been struck by a golf club. At present, six such artefacts have been recovered so far, though it is theorised that there may be more. It is not currently known whether or not POI WESTPHALEN is aware of their existence, though given the regularity with which he attended the Research Complex in the years prior to the creation of the TideFate California Power Facility, there is a high likelihood that he may have come into contact with KO1 instances. 

Disinformation Strategy: In line with instruction from Intelligencer SERAPH, Assets in Republic Media have been advised to promulgate the explanation that the KO1 artefacts are the work of a guerrilla art collective whose goal is as yet unknown, but who are assumed to be weaponising POI WESTPHALEN's memories of his late father, whose enthusiasm for the game of golf he does not share. A number of more outlandish explanations have been seeded in online fora by Assets of low credibility, with the goal of making the 'art collective' explanation seem more plausible by comparison. 

Current Hypothesis: It is the opinion of Intelligencer SERAPH that the appearance of the artefacts has some connection to the research carried out at the Tidefate Complex and due to be implemented presently at the California Power Facility. They may form part of a disinformation strategy pursued by POI WESTPHALEN to distract from his actual research, or they may be a genuine byproduct of the complex's activity. Given the implications of the latter possibility, Intelligencer SERAPH is inclined to believe the former more likely. 

Further Investigation: Intelligencer SERAPH has been cleared to travel to the USA, officially as part of a Cultural Exchange tour organised in collaboration with Asset BUCKAROO. While there, she will liaise with Asset CATSPAW, who has been monitoring POI WESTPHALEN, to investigate and, if need be, neutralise the Tidefate California Power Facility. While Intelligencer SERAPH is abroad, her work monitoring the TideFate Research Complex will be the responsibility of Intelligencer CLEVERBOY. 

Date of Most Recent Update: 31/10/2012CE 

 

Thursday, 24 October 2024

Albian Dreams Omnibus Megapost

 


I learn, from today's episode of the excellent Podcasting is Praxis podcast that Daily Mail columnist and massive creep Quentin Letts has tried his hand at a counterfactual history of the United Kingdom. Unsurprisingly, his attempt is terrible racist, misogynist guff, but the Praxiscast crew's skewering of it is hilarious. It reminded me, however, of my own ongoing dabbles in counterfactuality with the history of the Union of Albian Republics, which, biased as I undoubtedly am, I think are much better than Letts' execrable wanking, not least because, lacking Quentin's quaint servility I had the guts to murder Charles Windsor in a chip pan fire, and I regret nothing. 

So I thought, y'know what? This blog needs a post which aggregates together every instalment of that story (so far) for ease of access and sharing. This is that post. 

Behold!

Albian Dreams Book One: The Savile Wars

Prologue : Albia Eruditorum - in a pastiche of Elizabeth Sandifer's Doctor Who essays, the status quo ante for the Savile Wars is established on the way to a consideration of Jeremy Brett's bravura turn as everyone's favourite Timelord

Riot Cops in Roundhay Park: remembering the Savile Wars - in the first instalment of her remarkable memoir, my parallel universe counterpart Angel McKenna describes the fallout from Geoffrey Howe's decision to read the details of what Margaret Thatcher knew about Jimmy Savile's crimes into the Parliamentary record in the early 1990s. 

An Albian Poem - an example of my counterpart's verse. At this point I was assuming the final form of this project would be a selection of these counterfactual poems, with the alternate history on here as mere background colour, but the opposite largely proved true. 

Meanwhile, in Moscow - Agent Billings goes for a McDonalds with a snooty colleague.

The Prisoner: the long and crucial final act of David Bowie - Angel McKenna's obituary for the late Mr B outlines a little of the Albian Artists' Prison system.

In Albia - an early example of Angel's poetry, from when she was an optimistic ideologue instead of a hardbitten Republic Intelligencer. 

Car Crashes and the Smell of Burning Hair - in another instalment of Angel's memoir, we learn about the love affair between Prince Dai and the future First Citizen Mercury, and the Windsors' attempt to do something about it. 

Pucker Up and Think of England - amid the fallout from the Windsor Crime Family's only half-successful attempt to murder Dai and Freddie, Agent Billings finds himself tasked with assisting a mysterious asset of British Intelligence known only as 'JR' (she prefers Jo) in a bizarre, Q-branch style attempt at killing the First Citizen and strangling the Albian Revolution in its crib. 

Death is One of the Main Characters - Jo meets Angel at Forbidden Planet and muses on the popularity of stories of boy wizards, before revealing her proclivities in a dramatic graveyard encounter. 

The Pleasure of Shaking a Tail - Albian Review of Books critic Bill Hagchester reviews the memoirs of a number of figures involved, in one way or another, in the Lipstick Plot, filling us in on some details of Angel's postwar work as an Intelligencer and her relationship with US Cultural Attache Charles T. Billings.

Albia, September 2001 - an older, more cynical angel busts a Windsor loyalist black magic ring in the week following 9/11, while US President Gore and his Soviet counterpart Zyuganov meet to discuss what must be done. 

Angel's Lament - my counterpart bemoans the loneliness of life as an Intelligencer in another of her poems. 

Ghostwatch - you're not cleared for this one.

The Black Spider at Bay: A Claustrophobic Castle - in a piece written in her cover job as a journalist, Angel has some fun remarking on the straitened circumstances of the Windsor Crime Family and their loyalists in their new digs in Jersey. 

A Birthright of Distinction - in one of her mature poetic works, Angel McKenna sticks the knife into Chuckie Seven Eggs on the occasion of his farcical Coronation.

A Midnight Feast - on the night of his Coronation, a sleepless Charles Windsor recalls happier times with Sir Jimmy, and makes an ill-fated attempt to cook chips. 

Epilogue: Gansevoort, 2009 - Angel meets an ex in what they used to call Hell's Kitchen, learns about advances in frying technology, and imagines a nightmare alternative world where the Windsors were never deposed. 


Albian Dreams Book 2: Angel's In America

Parhelion: A Prologue - in a universe much more like our own, two Americas meet, with disastrous consequences for both. But what does any of this have to do with Albia, and Angel?

From the Files of the Republic Intelligencers: Artefact Cluster KO1 - 'Kirkoswald Spheres'

Wednesday, 23 October 2024

As Free As Bears Are

Poster for the Newcastle Ewan Brown Anarchist Book Fair by the Fair's 'in-house artist', which partly inspired this poem

 

Did you know that bears like views? It’s true:
if they see a sight they like they’ll dig
a pit where they can sit and just admire it. 
Perhaps we should start digging up the flagstones
every hundred yards or so and pile them into
places we can be as free as bears are,
free to lie as well as sit, to stretch our bodies,
let the sun diffuse into our stiffened joints,
and be the eyes our streets are said to need,
not just the mouths the pubs make money feeding.
Perhaps we could plant flowers in the now-uncovered soil
so bees can take a break from spreading pollen,
grow that grass we’re always being told to touch,
or even trees for common fruit. We could. 


As well as being inspired partly by the above image, this poem was also inspired by discussions during a workshop given by Amy Langdown for their 'Narrative Shift' project with Alphabetti Theatre. 

Monday, 21 October 2024

I was a Teenage Eschatologist

 



In my teens I was obsessed with signs and wonders,
with working out the Number of the Beast,
decoding quatrains, counting Popes:
establishing the Terminus of every human hope. 

This past October it flared up again
(no pun intended) as a response to some
auroral paranoia, nine parts schizoid
numerology to one cup of solar dynamics,

that held we’d know an ending
like a minor Nic Cage movie,
and was further fuelled by Jacobsen’s 
Scenario: the whole Boreal

Hemisphere made ash inside two hours
(and fortunate indeed those first to burn,
spared carol concerts played by gramophone
and finger, spared the slow starvation of that last long winter),

victims of flawed tech and launch-on-warning
- just a cautionary tale, of course,
or so it seemed until the rumours
that strange troops were seen in Kursk. 

Would the teenage eschatologist I once was get a thrill
from living, still, in times of prophecy and dream?
The woman on the police show my dad watches on TV
says I’m praying for the Holy Land. They’re bombing Galilee. 







Sunday, 6 October 2024

Festive Fayre

What do you reckon, this year's Christmas card?



It was clever of Dickens to make the man who hated Christmas rich,
because it gave his well-heeled audience an insult to sling at the poor
which could suggest parsimony, not poverty
(along with what that queer unBritish Christian name suggested)
if they dared complain about the cost of gifts and geese and mandatory
good cheer, and how that cost keeps rising every year. 

It clothed their self-congratulation and their cruelty
in a jolly cloak of fellowship and charity, a reality he artfully
revealed to be the very centre of his story, surrounded by 
a tactically-deployed sentimentality,
which licensed them to happily ignore it, as they tucked in
to their puddings and their poultry. 

I don't mean to say that Dickens was a hypocrite:
simply that he knew what being poor really is; knew, too,
who had spare cash to buy the magazines he published in,
and gave them what they wanted: 'Scrooge' and 'humbug'
as a shorthand they could wield to penalise
anybody crotchety enough to spoil their fun,

to point out that their locked and bolted doors belied their cry,
port glasses raised: God bless us, every one. 

(this poem is brought to you by the seasonal depression I always fall into at this time of year due to having to balance buying Christmas gifts for my family with being dirt-poor; if you would like to help alleviate this gloom then please consider popping some cash in my tip jar at ko-fi.com/ajmckenna )


Sunday, 8 September 2024

INSIDELEFT Interview!

 YouTuber Steven Fearon interviewed me on his channel, INSIDELEFT, about my recent poem Tell Me, Physician, and much more besides. I really enjoyed having this opportunity to explain what was going through my mind in writing that poem, what inspires me creatively, what I've learned and why I think it all matters (and even slag off that racist disappointment Caitlin R Kiernan a little bit). Give it a watch, and maybe even like, comment and subscribe!