Well, what's a poor Ulster Paranoid to do? Who to cheer for? A token black Brit who wears the butcher's apron or well loved convicted rapist Iron man Mike Tyson, the pawn of the egregious Don King. The pre fight hype was, as usual, pathetic with the hack commentators trying desperately to hide the fact that everyone knew that Tyson was supposed to beat Bruno but wanting the fight to go just a little more than the last couple of fiascoes. Bruno was supposed to get creamed - for considerably less money than Iron Mikey in order that King can regain control of the three different world titles and consolidate his power.

In the end it was no contest - not just the so called fight but for this spectator - who, rest assured didn't waste his money actually paying $25 or so to see this farce. The fact that Bruno had 5,000 Brit fans there, 99% of them showing their white puffy purulent flesh off in the Las Vegas sun and chanting in support of 'their boy' - who if they met him in the streets of London they would dismiss as just another uppity nigger in their lovable racist way meant that in order to get anything out of this sociological encounter I would have to support the new pride of Islam.

Tyson entered the ring led by a crazed handler who kept shouting 'no white power'. He seemed to ignore the fact that Bruno was blacker than Tyson. Bruno entered without the usual laser light show that his white handlers put on in London. The drunken and sunburnt Brits howl but are drowned out when Star Spangled Banner is sung by two faded black R&B singers with Don King grinning in the background. Rule Britannia doesn't cut it after Motown.

We are next treated by the breathless commentator to a run down of the WBC rules - as if they've got anything to do with anything. Everyone knows that King put in a stumble bum like Bruno as WBC champ just to hold the title until Mikey could get out of the slammer, now rededicated to Allah and the Allahmighty dollar. Just like the mob put in Jackie Presser to take over the Teamsters when Hoffa had to do a bit of time

The referee, a diminutive Jimmy Durante, savoring his five minutes of fame snarled a vicious warning about 'fighting fair or I'll kill ya's and then chanted 'let's rumble.' Some rumble! And how can you fight fair when the fight's been rigged from the get go. No matter, the first round is boring. In the second Bruno desperately tries to hold for the entire round, clinging onto Tyson as if he was his life belt. Towards the end of the round Tyson connects with a few punches and the writing is doing a Mene mene Tekel Uparsin on Bruno's wall. In a last desperate attempt to con the viewers as to the fight's authenticity we are permitted to hear Bruno's corner, with their Cockney accents, screaming at Bruno - 'yer getting fuckin' slow, fucking hit the fucker.'

Somehow this lacked the Colgate ring of confidence. It is obvious that Bruno thinks that's he's earned his cut after standing there for two rounds and, as soon as round three commences he obligingly pokes out his chin and is TKOed in 50 seconds. Tyson falls to the floor and thanks Allah. He then gives an Islamic commercial, flexing his right arm which has a tattoo of Chairman Mao on it. God is good. The CHAMP is back, although we can't help noticing that he sounds more and more like Michael Jackson everyday - the voice is getting a bit squeaky, Mike, hope nothing bad happened to you when you were in the slammer!

Don King appears. The commentator remarks that he has blood on his jacket. The Don doesn't care. He's just up there getting free advertising. He launches into a crazed rant about his ongoing lawsuits, legal jurisprudence, the power of Allah and concludes, reluctantly with a reference to Dr. Zhivago. At which stage this reviewer switched over to A&E for an entertaining interview with Kurt Saxon, the poor man's James Bond who gleefully proclaims that it's everyone's God given right to learn how to manufacture home made bombs.

Does anyone out there share my jaundiced view that the scriptwriters up there are not doing their job. I know they can't give us bread, but aren't we entitled to better circuses than these?

Bye for now,

The Ulster Paranoid