Gog

by Andrew Sinclair

  “I can’t cross your palm with silver,” Gog says. “I haven’t got a penny and I’ve lost my clothes.”

  “You’re from the film, sir, on the moor. Take me with you, sir, and I’ll ask no silver to tell your dukkeripen.” She seizes Gog’s hand and begins reading his palm as if a litany were written there for her to chant. “God bless you, pretty gentleman, much trouble will you have to suffer and much water to cross. But never you fear, pretty gentleman, you shall be fortunate at the end, and those who hate you shall take off their hats to you, if you take a Romany chi with you as your mort to the land of the gorgeous gorgios by the Western Sea.” The gypsy girl gives up her chant and turns her shrewd left eye upon Gog’s staring two eyes. Her voice suddenly acquires a trans­atlantic twang. “That means, brother, take me with you to Hollywood, and I’ll add the noughts onto your contract. That’s what the stars say.”

  Gog begins to protest. “I’m hardly anything to do with films. I’m an extra. I was only taken on today. Really I’m on my way to London . . .” But before his explanations can explain any­thing, the gypsy girl claws open the rip in her blouse until both her brown breasts are bare to the breeze, then hurls herself scratching and writhing closer into Gog’s arms, so that Gog does not know whether she is assaulting his virtue or defending her own. He is not puzzled for long. She lays back her head, opens her gullet, and looses a howl for help.

  As if waiting for the signal, a sleek horse pulling a yellow caravan brighter than the sun appears out of a hidden lane. The mumping mugger on the driver’s seat of the caravan appears in no hurry. He lets the horse amble along until it reaches the scene of the supposed attempt at rape; then he stares down at the bare-breasted Gog and girl, for she has now clawed off Gog’s paper smock and is trying to remove the skin off his ribs in strips with one set of nails, while the other set digs into his back so that he cannot fend her off.

  “Would you mind,” Gog says, “getting your lady off my chest?”

  The mumping mugger hitches the reins of the horse round a post on the driver’s seat, rises slowly, spits in one hand, rubs it on his leg, spits in the other hand, rubs it on his buttock, lowers himself off the caravan, walks slowly towards Gog, raises his right hand, and swings it across with the force of a thrown discus. Only the blow does not strike Gog; it smashes the girl’s cheek, so that she spins ten yards sideways and lands in a heap by the horse.

  “Thank you,” Gog says, “for that helping hand.” But his gratitude is a little chastened by the appearance of his saviour. The mumping mugger is nearly Gog’s own size, burly and black with wind and sun, his face lumpy with permanent bruises, his snub nose cleft at the tip like a split plum. He wears a brown oily cap rammed over his frizz of curls, a red kerchief knotted tightly over his Adam’s apple, yellow braces over his checked shirt, and gumboots over his corduroy trousers that seem more mud than cloth and are held up for double safety by a brass-buckled belt. He takes off his cap and dashes it violently on the ground. Gog, conciliatory, bends and picks up the cap and restores it to its owner, who wrenches it violently from his hand and dashes it on the ground yet again.

  “Do I bash yer,” the mumping mugger mutters, pausing with menace between each word, “or does yer marry her?”

  It is a good question. Gog cannot decide which is the more painful alternative. So he decides to temporize. “I’m married,” he says, grateful for once to Maire.

  The mumping mugger becomes even more violent at this remark. He jerks off the handkerchief from round his neck, crumples it into a squashed tomato, and throws that on the ground. “Don’t chaffer,” he says. “I says, do I bash yer or does yer marry her? I ain’t asking yer if yer’s got a mort. Does yer marry her?”

  “Perhaps she’s married too?” Gog suggests.

  Indigo with rage, the mumping mugger pulls loose his yellow braces, rips off his checked shirt and throws that on top of the cap and handkerchief. His chest looks like a coal-face after blast­ing. “I’m married to her meself. I says, do I bash yer . . .”

  “Bash him,” the girl says, one hand to her bruised cheek and the other holding her torn blouse together and her rolling, evil eye fixed for the moment on Gog.

  “But if she’s married to you,” Gog says, “how can she marry me?”

  One by one, the mugger unbuttons his hanging braces. He is about to dash them also to the ground, when Gog takes them from his hand and lays them tidily on top of the pile of his clothes.

  “If yer marry under an hedge,” the mugger says, “yer can marry all yer please. Now will yer marry her or . . .”

  “Before I say anything,” Gog says, “are you going to take your trousers off next, or your gumboots? There is a lady present.”

  On hearing this, the cheeks of the mugger turn darker than pitch, froth flecks his lips, and he goes into a clomping war-dance as he tugs off first one gumboot and then the other, before hurling them onto the road. Stripped down now to his trousers, he looks as tall and dangerous as a pit-shaft. And Gog, for fear that one more word will peel his opponent down to the naked Caliban, dabs his enemy with a left fist on his split nose.

  So it’s round one of Gog versus the Mumping Mugger. And it would do you good, young Tom Sayers long gone to worms, O Peerless Little Wonder, to see how Gog taps the ground with his left foot, his arms held down and his head thrown back, ready to smash out with either fist, as the Mumping Mugger, bigger than even the Benicia Boy, hurtles in for the kill. And see, Gog now raises his fist out in front of his shoulders – just so, Bill Neate, you once set out your arms, so that none of the Fancy could plant a punch on you and tap the claret, not even the spry braggart Gasman who went in and out of a boxer’s guard quicker than a viper’s tongue. You too, Tom Cribb, Champion of All England, never fought so mountainous a blackamoor, no, not even when you milled twice with Molineaux and fibbed him so mercilessly the final time that you cracked his jaw like plaster and stove in his ribs like laths.

  Yet the onrush of the Mumping Mugger against the raised fists of Gog is so fierce that, though Gog smacks him with another left on the chin, the force of his assailant knocks him clean off his feet. Then he’s down with the Mugger’s knees in his belly and the Mugger’s hands round his windpipe, choking him senseless. And Gog’s a gone goose, but a sudden thump of soft flesh sends the Mugger sprawling. And Gog is buoyed onto the lap of a billowy shape so full of swell and fury that the whole sea seems to be contained in a sack under him.

  “Fair’s fair,” Gog’s rescuer says. “I woant have no bloody murder. War’s over. It’s rules now, an’ doant yer forget it, yer gyppo mardarse. Or Rosie’ll bust yer.” Gog looks up at the speaker of these coaly and loamy vowels to see the fattest and pinkest girl in all the world, dressed in a white circus tent that seems hardly to cover the amphitheatre of her robust charms. “Crippen,” the Fat Girl says, “if it ain’t ole Goggie. ’Ow’s yer keepin’? We’ll ’ave a reight chinwag after yer’ve smashed ’im.” Then she says, “I’ll ’ave five pound on Goggie, ’e’s a reight ’un in clinch.”

  “Done,” the gypsy girl says. “I’ll hold the stakes.”

  “We’ll ’old our own,” the Fat Girl says. “An’ if yer doant pay oop, yer’ll ’ave ter settle with me.”

  So the second round begins with Gog rising from the Fat Girl’s lap as Champion of Albion, to fight the Mumping Mugger, over the sea from Egypt or Barbary or even God doesn’t know where. Each has his second, the thin gypsy girl crouching like a stoat on the caravan steps in the Mugger’s corner, the Fat Girl spread out opposite her as cushioned as an arm-chair fit for a Gargantua or a mere Gog. The ring has one side in the yellow slats of the caravan and another in the fence before Bylands Abbey, but on the other two sides the open road points north to Edinburgh and south to London. The gypsy girl bangs a whip on the iron rim of the caravan wheel, and the champions set to in earnest. Eternity deep on the roadway, the ghosts of the old Fancy and the Flash and the Swells collect, in silent hubbub to lay the odds, as the Champion of Albi
on fights for purse and country against the black invader in the noble art of self-offence.

  Second Round: The Mugger leads with a left-hand blow which does not tell; when Gog plants a most tremendous blow over his adversary’s right eyebrow; this does not have the effect of knocking him down, he only staggers a few paces, followed up by the Champion of Albion. Desperation is now the order of the round, and the rally recommences with uncommon severity, in which Gog shows the most science, although he receives a dreadful blow on the mouth that makes his teeth chatter again, and exhibits the first signs of claret. Evens on Gog, as the heroes fight again in the valiant style of the sporting annals of the past, hot with the dukes and red with the blood of Black Richmond, Dutch Sam, Mendoza and Maddox, The Pride of Westminster, Tom Belcher, Paddington Jones, Tough Tom Blake, and match­less Tom Cribb, who also defended the honour of England against the dark foe in the pages of Gog’s youth, and now nods among the battered faces of the Fancy to see his boy crib him to feint and strike at the Mumping Mugger by the ruined abbey and the caravan.

  Third Round: After a short space occupied in sparring, the Mumping Mugger attempts a good blow on Gog’s nob, but the Champion of Albion parries it, and returns a right-handed hit under the Mugger’s lower rib, when he falls rapidly in the extreme. Two to one on Gog.

  Fourth Round: On setting to the Mumping Mugger rallies, when the Champion of Albion stops his career by a severe hit in the face, that levels him, the tarmac being set and slippery.

  Fifth Round: The amateurs are uncommonly interested in this round, it is a display of such united skill and bottom, that both the combatants claim peculiar notice from their extra­ordinary efforts. The Mumping Mugger rallies with uncommon fortitude, but his blows are short. Gog returns with spirit, but the Mugger knocks them off, and puts in a tremendous hit on the left eye of the Champion of Albion. A rally, at half-arm’s length, now follows, which excites the utmost astonishment from the resoluteness of both the heroes, who hit each other away three times, and continue this desperate milling for half a minute; when the Mumping Mugger falls from a feeble blow. The Knowing Ones are lost for a moment, and no bets are offered.

  Sixth Round: The Mugger plants a blow upon the nob of the Champion of Albion, who falls from the bad state of the ground.

  Seventh Round: Gog in a rally gives the Mumping Mugger a hit on the side of the head, when he goes down.

  Eighth Round: Gog shows himself off in good style, and deals out his blows with considerable success and effect; but he has experienced from the determined resolution of the Mugger that he is somewhat mistaken in his ideas of the Black Man’s capabilities, who rallies in prime-twig, and notwithstanding the severe left-handed hits which were planted on his nob, and the terrible punishment he has received on his body, directed by the fine skill and power of the Champion of Albion, still he stands up undismayed, and proves that his courage is of no ordin­ary nature in exchanging several of the blows, till he falls almost in a state of stupor, from the milling his head has undergone. This round is equal to any that precede it, and only different in point of duration.

  Ninth to Eighteenth Round: The battle is fought with super­lative milling and fibbing, with the odds now on the Champion of Albion, now on the Mumping Mugger, so awesome is the skill and bottom of both opponents.

  Nineteenth Round: To distinguish the combatants by their features would be utterly impossible, so dreadfully are both their faces beaten – but their difference of colour supplies this sort of defect. It is really astonishing to view the determined manner in which these heroes meet – Gog, acting upon the defensive, and retreating from the blows of his antagonist, though endeavouring to put in a hit, is got by the Mumping Mugger against the fence, which is in height about five feet, and in three rows. The Mumping Mugger with both his hands catches hold of the wires, and holds Gog in such a singular way, that he can neither make a hit nor fall down; and while the seconds are discussing the propriety of separating the combatants, about two hundred goats rush from the middle of the abbey field to the exterior fence; and the gypsy girl asserts, if one of the Mugger’s fingers is not broken, it is much injured by some of the goats attempting to bite off his hand; all this time the Mumping Mugger is gaining his wind by laying his head on Gog’s breast, and refusing to release his victim; when the Champion of Albion by a desperate effort to extricate himself from the rude grasp of the Mugger, is at length run down to one corner of the open ring; and the Mumping Mugger having got his head under his arm, fibs away most unmercifully, but his strength not being able to the intent, it otherwise must prove fatal to Gog, who falls from exhaustion and the severe punishment he has received. Half an hour has expired during this round.

  Twentieth to Twenty-eighth Round: Gog recruits his strength by keeping back from the Mumping Mugger, who rushes in boring and hitting. Gog manages to darken his left peeper in a scientific manner, his opponent’s desperate onslaughts notwith­standing.

  Twenty-ninth Round: The Mugger is running in with spirit, but the Champion of Albion stops his career, by planting a hit upon his right eye, and from the severe effects of which he goes down, his peeper materially damaged. The fate of the battle may be said to be decided by this round.

  Thirtieth Round: If anything can reflect credit upon the skill and bottom of Gog, it is never more manifested than in this contest, in viewing what a resolute and determined hero he has to vanquish. The Mumping Mugger, in spite of every disadvantage, with a courage and ferocity unequalled, rising superior to exhaustion and fatigue rallies his adversary with as much resolution as at the commencement of the fight, his nob defying all the milling it has received, the punishment appearing to have no decisive effect upon it; so he contends nobly with Gog right and left, knocking him away by his hits, and gallantly concludes the round by closing and throwing the Champion of Albion. The Mugger is now convinced that if he does win, he must do it off by hand, as his sight is much impaired.

  Thirty-first Round: This is the last round that may be termed fighting, in which the Mumping Mugger has materially the worst of it; but the battle is continued to the thirty-ninth, when Gog evidently appears the best man, and at its conclusion, the Mugger for the first time complains, that “He can fight no more!” but his second, who views the nicety of the point, persuades him to try the chance of another round, to which request he acquiesces, when he falls from weakness, reflecting additional credit on the manhood of his brave conqueror, Gog Griffin, who, in falling back on the lap of the Fat Girl, is in the very position that he was upon the commencing of the second round.

  If anything has been wanting to establish the fame of Gog, the above conquest has completely decided his just pretensions to the Championship of Albion. With a coolness and confidence, almost his own, and with skill and judgement truly rare, he has beaten his man with more certainty than any of the professors of the gymnastic art. He was called upon to protect the honour of his country, and the reputation of English Boxing – a parade of words, or the pomposity of high-flown diction are not necessary to record the circumstances; however, let it not be forgotten, that Gog Griffin HAS DONE THIS . . .

  Gog wakes from a brief moment of insensibility to find himself again on the Fat Girl’s lap, his face and chest hardly bruised and the ghosts of the dead Fancy gone for ever down the open road. She is whispering fiercely in his ear, “Now, will yer use Low Crooked?” And Gog feels her put something heavy in the palm of his left hand and close his fingers round the object into a fist. “Doant loose that, luv, till yer’ve fetched it be’ind the Mugger’s lug’ole. It’s loocky charm an’ all.” Then with a heave, the Fat Girl ups the groggy Gog onto his feet as the whip handle sounding against the caravan wheel singles the opening of yet another round. And Gog sees the Mumping Mugger come rushing at him, but his foe is so miraculously unmarked that Gog fears he has dreamed the thirty-nine rounds from the lap of the Fat Girl, his mind has cribbed word by word the progress of a great victory once won by a Champion of Albion in the past. But if Gog finds
that he has imagined a victory by the high straight left and right, now he has only Low Crooked to save his skin. And as the Mumping Mugger strikes and strikes so that the wind of his blows whistles unpleasantly in Gog’s ears, Gog collects all his strength to give the Mugger a left hook on the ear, which fells him to the ground like a pit disaster. The gypsy girl runs forwards with a loud cry and throws herself on her fallen champion, while the Fat Girl raises Gog’s right hand in triumph, slipping a half-horseshoe from his left palm into the bosom of the marquee that hides her breast.

  “Gog’s woon fair an’ square an’ above board,” she declares, “an’ that’ll cost yer five pound, yer Romany chi.”

  The gypsy girl rises from the body of the Mugger and throws herself, all scratches like a brierbush in a gust, upon the Fat Girl, who merely envelops her in two broad arms and squeezes the breath and the sass out of her. When the gypsy girl is nearly pressed flat, the Fat Girl removes the gold sovereign that hangs from one ear of her rival and the gold napoleon that hangs from the other. “I’ll ’ave ’em, doocks,” she says, “till I get me five pound. I like matters ’onest like. I’m joost simple coontry maid goin’ oop ter big city. An’ yer’ll ’elp me fare.”