We ran out of milk this morning mainly
because I, Carl “the Cobra” Froch, am a champion and a true champion has milk in
his tea and make no mistake there is no
one on this planet that can compete with me in tea drinking at 168 lbs. I am
one of the all time greats. Oh, and Rocco needed some milk for his bottle or
something.
I told Rachel that I was going down to
the corner-shop to pick some up; she told me there was some change on the
counter. I briskly informed her that a true warrior like Carl Froch doesn’t
need to change; I’m an immovable object, an unstoppable force and it is my foe
who will always and I repeat ALWAYS bend and ultimately break to my indomitable
will. Without looking up from a copy of OK magazine she mumbled something about
that not being at all what she meant and could I please get on with it and to
remember to lock the door.
Stepping out the house I glanced at the
door, menacingly. I view locking the door as a coward’s move - Carl Froch is a
warrior, he never backs down and there is no challenge that me and my granite
chin will ever shirk. Burglars, prowlers and thieves alike should know that The
Cobra and my trainer, the best trainer in boxing, Robert McCracken, have a game
plan that will defeat any and all adversaries. From inside the house Rachel
bawled “CLOSE the bloody door you twit.
You’re letting in a draught!”.
I took off vigorously down the street
towards the corner-shop with my head held high and a straight back sporting a
freshly minted sweatshirt. I always carry myself like the elite athlete I
am; a legend amongst legends and an immortal among mortals. I strode confidently
into the corner-shop. “One pint of semi skimmed milk!” I thundered.
“What’s wrong with you?! Why are you
shouting? And wait your bloody turn” came the flustered response from Mr Desai,
the shopkeeper.
“It is always the Cobra’s turn.” I
snarled. “Just like it was my turn against Jermaine Taylor, just like it was my
turn against Jean Pascal, just like it was against Mikkel Kessler (the second time anyway) and just like it was against George Groves in front of
80,000 people at Wembley Stadium!”
Mr Desai frowned “guess it wasn’t your turn against Andre Ward then…”
As I reached into my pocket for the
coins to pay, oozing machismo i might add, I picked up the Sunday paper. James DeGale
appears to have beaten Andre Dirrel for the IBF world Super Middleweight Title.
I let go a wry smile. Dirrell, hah! One of my vanquished former adversaries and
DeGale nothing more than a slightly more tanned version of George Groves who lest we forget I
knocked out EMPHATICALLY in a, by now, storied venue in front of a, by now,
storied RECORD crowd. I drifted proudly into a reverie, reflecting on the glory
of my career; the career of a British gladiator whose grit, whose heart, whose cojones
could never be questioned….”Excuse me!” Barked Mr Desai. “Earth to Carl! That
will be one pound 10 pence please - if you want the paper too!”.
Having paid in exact change, I marched home. Degale, Groves, Dirrell,
Taylor, Kessler, Bute. Pish posh! All of them put to the sword by The Sherriff
of Nottingham, Carl Froch. With my name surely cemented, in no time, into the hall of
fame, what left is there to prove for Carl Froch? Is there anyone even worthy to square off
against the mighty lion of the super middleweight savannah? My phone rings.
It’s Eddie Hearn.
“Awright geezer?" He squawked. "How’s about a cheeky tussle
with GGG for a fair-well knock? I’ll get you a fair few squid for it?”
“I’m listening, Eddie. I’m listening.”
