Having dismissed the idea of running a series examining the gloveboxes of the rich and famous, I wondered if instead it might be interesting to run a series on the boxing gloves of the indigent and wretched. That’s right, I had finally taken leave of my senses, again. What was I thinking? For one thing, I know precious little about boxing, or its gloves. Second, I would rather know much less than I do about the indigent and wretched, otherwise known as riff-raff. Much, much less. If I never came upon another member of the riff-raff I would die a happy man. Unfortunately, on the rare occasions when I emerge from my barrel of reclusion and venture into the outside world, I can barely move for the teeming throngs of riff-raff.
Incidentally, if you followed the link above, do take the opportunity to buy the record. It is very good indeed.
I am always amused by the fact that the Corbynistas and their like claim to be devoted to the needs of the riff-raff. They hate and despise the riff-raff even more than I do. It is a mutual loathing, which the Corbynistas explain by saying the riff-raff are bedevilled by “false consciousness”. Frankly I would be surprised if the riff-raff I encounter have any consciousness whatsoever, unless it be a malign intention to exasperate me. That is something in which they demonstrate an almost enviable skill.
Clearly, given the above, I am not best placed to write about the boxing gloves of the indigent and wretched. Could I, then, turn my attention to the boxing gloves of the rich and famous? I suppose I could, but for the full run of a series? That seems dubious, to say the least. Once I had dealt with Ernest Hemingway’s many and various punch-ups, with a nod to Joan Miró and Arthur Cravan, I would pretty much have exhausted my knowledge. Add to which Hemingway’s fist-fights were usually boxing gloveless – as when he knocked Wallace Stevens into a puddle (1936) – and Arthur Cravan was neither rich nor famous in his time, and the paucity of material I have to draw on becomes horribly apparent.
So, to face brute facts, that is another projected series I shall have to dismiss as a hopeless dream. Oh, that gives me an idea! Hopeless Dreams of the Riff-Raff! Now there is a topic I could get my teeth into. And, being based on dreams, I could just make it all up. No pesky research required. I shall start work on it immediately.
As a possible alternative, given the amount of violence perpetrated by the established Church over the centuries, perhaps an investigation of sundry bouts of fisticuffs involving famous clerics – “Float like a butterly, sting like the Venerable Bede…”