Losers!

‘Brooo-noh!’ That was their battle cry.

Night & Day, March 1996

To be a Frank Bruno fan these days, you must really take a beating. On a grey Monday morning in the Granary restaurant in Luton airport, five days before the big fight, a large man eating a full farmhouse was explaining to his friends the pleasures of the long-distance package tour. ‘How am I going to last 11 hours?’ he asks. ‘The most I ever done was New York, that was seven. I’m knackered now.’

It is 6am and this is two-seat Bob. About 50, he’s earned his money all his life and now he’s going to spend it. He says they’re going to reserve him an extra seat on the plane on account of him being so big, right at the front, which brings its own problems. ‘Too near the screen to watch the bleedin’ film. They charge £2 to rent the bleedin’ headsets. It’s Road Runner or Mr Bean. On every single plane, I’ve been on they always show you Mr Bean.’
The reality will be even more taxing: a 15-hour flight, £2.50 for the headsets, no empty seat, bleedin’ French & Saunders. Bob will seek solace in a complicated in-flight order for spirits and beer.

Still in the check-in queue at this terrible hour is Peter Stokes, 37, waiting with his two brothers and five friends. They came down in a mini-van from Birmingham at two in the morning and now they’re swapping tabloids, looking for the fight news through crusty eyes, fishing for ‘exit’ and ‘smoking’ seats.

Peter has been to Las Vegas before, five times. He’s a self-made millionaire, has a nice hotel-fitting business, has been all over the world. On his wrist he wears a £9,000 gold Rolex with a very thin strap. He’s a big sports fan. He didn’t really want to do this trip, but his friends said they’d like it if he could show them around. He loves Vegas, knows the best hotels, has a very sensible gambling system: $100 dollars a day and then that’s absolutely it. He, too, is dreading this flight.

A little behind him is John Ashton, who believes that if Tyson tags him with a left hook early on, then Frank is finished. John should know: he used to be a boxer himself until his eye went, and his brother Reynard was once a potential champion. John trains Colin ‘Sweet C’ McMillan in King’s Cross and knows all of Bruno’s people. The last time he talked to them, they said Frank was in great shape. John has brought his golf clubs and is organising a round with friends the day after the fight. ‘Could be a celebration,’ he says.

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