Good day my fine friends. 

Whilst I maintain the belief it’s a healthy practice to partake in a hobby of some type I have never been grasped with an enthusiasm towards one that could potentially kill a participant and have often pondered what pleasure is derived either from, in particularly, partaking but also merely observing the supposedly manly pastime of publicly beating an opponent to a pulp under the facade of sporting amusement.  

Whilst, as you might recall from my daily blurbs, I have inadvertently partaken through neither no fault nor desire of my very own in a number of unfortunate tussles of fisticuff type, I have thankfully never, until this incident, had an entanglement of either tangible or merely thought type with this legitimised battery and yours being of foppish and dandified favour has been painfully and skittishly wincing non stop, yes even in my slumbered state, since this chancing upon these boxing bambino’s who were kitted-up in killing gear and engaged in a spirited bout of barbaric brain-bashing.

On approach I had respectfully flashed my most amiable countenance as I harboured no desires to fall foul of these prey-hungry practitioners.  It however transpires my nervous state had portrayed the chummy-grin as having the affect of a brazen grimace which apparently was construed as a` come on then you dunderheaded, puss-brained, pint sized mitt marauders` or the like, as, and before I could whimper for help, I was an un-fortuitous, non-sparring due to the outnumbered surprise attack by this terrifying twosome, combatant.

I tried to impart that I would gladly partake if I could, but alas I could not as under doctors orders I must only practise sports of genteel type perhaps involving the nurturing of root vegetables or working wonders, and comely garments, with twine of pleasant coloured lengths, though to be fair twas not limited to the art of knit,  no, crochet was indeed allowed.

Well midst my pained existence in the wicked world of upper cuts, thrusts and jabs and all that evil shenanigans I endeavoured to cry foul under the Marquess of Queensberry rules as I was not kitted up with gargantuan, and much coveted heavily weighted, mitts.  the assualt was bordering on being brought to an abrupt halt due to my numerous injuries necessitating a Technical Knockout but one of the bounders instructed his buddy to  "knock is teef art"
Well I'm telling you straight, these toothy-tools play a major part when plying my favoured pastime of woo and I saw red and assumed I had subliminally worked up a fury but realised twas of the hue of my own haemoglobin.  However I maintained the vision of my exceptional dentistry and maintained the intent to keep them intact and though I remember little as my weakened resistance was at an all time ebb and twas all a bit of a blur I was later informed I most admirably, due to the fact that one arm was in flaccid and pendulous state, did smite both bounders across the back of their barbaric bonces and both were apparently instantly rendered to a state of tearful tantrum and the battle was terminated in an instance. 

There was no batting coquettish glances for a lengthy passage of time due to my traumatised optical organ but the evident bruising about my rear person attracted attention of all and sundry due to, I was informed, an initial apparition of silhouette type of the legendary Elvis in all his Vegas glory but through its course of healing stages brought about a multitude of Rorschach ink test type transforamtions and all feared I was an itinerant psychologist serruptiously assessing social sensibility and therefore brought about an attention of both hysterical and hair-raising type. 

When my limb-harbouring plaster cast was removed from my mutilated arm I was however, no doubt due to the inquisitive but negligent throng, the fortuitous recipient of a surgical implement, ah that was a hospital blunder, a much appreciated amount of candied treats and a motley assortment of knick-knickery including no less than 32 coins of various currency.