THE fight

At least half a dozen times each year I drag Dingo Baby to the theatre because 'it's good for him'. It is not his favourite art form but he comes along, valiantly trying to see what I love about it. The closest we got to shared enjoyment was Butley in 2011, with Dominic West as the English lecturer falling apart at the seams.

Given this sacrifice it seemed only fair that when a couple of tickets popped into his hand for the boxing 'heavyweight championship of the world', namely, Joshua versus Klitschko,  I could only say yes. It's not that I don't like the athleticism of boxing, particularly the lighter divisions, and despite appearances it requires strategic intelligence. I even tried Muay Thai for a year but gave up after hitting myself in the nose (it's a short, embarrassing story). Both Joshua and Klitschko seem like nice chaps with none of the trash talk of fighters like David Haye.

But it's obvious that unless you're going to pay £6,000 for ring side tickets you will get a much better view of a boxing match in a pub on a large, HD flat screen TV. Sitting up in the god's at Wembley Stadium requires binoculars. Not even the two large screens around the stadium provide the detail necessary for a really visceral experience of sweat and pounding movement. The whole show is designed as a spectacle for television, complete with fireworks and platforms raising 'AJ' up into the air to shadow box for the cameras before the fighting begins. Music at decibels fills any interstitial moment, between bouts and between rounds, and yet there is an odd silence at times including during the fights. There is no commentary in the stadium, only the murmurs rising to roars of the crowd. It is boring with intermittent flurries of action.  

So 'why?', is my question, are 90,000 of us coming along to sit in a cold arena to watch something we could better see at home or in the pub. And the answer is that it signifies the continued importance of 'the gathering', the need for human contact with like minded others. 

Then the question becomes, 'who are these like minded others?'  And here I begin to delve into unknown territory.

We arrive early for the preliminary matches, including watching an excellent bout between Katie Taylor from Ireland defeating Nina Meinke from Germany for a WBA lightweight championship. At this stage the stadium is almost empty. 

As the bouts become heavier the crowds get bigger and I am slowly surrounded by predominantly young, white, men, well groomed, smart-casually dressed (loafers, sometimes with tie and blazer), drinking and occasionally enjoying a return to the 80s as they emerge from the men's toilets with a spring in their step. This energy contributes to frenetic explosions of dancing to House of Pain's 'Jump Around', and rousing sing-alongs to Gala's 'Freed from Desire', something from Usher, and that classic of arena events, 'Sweet Caroline', oh oh ohh. Amidst chanting of 'Oh Anthony Joshua' (to the riff of White Stripes's 'Seven Nation Army') I am on a football terrace. With the chanting of 'tits out for the lads' I'm back in Australia (sigh). At my age I can at least challenge the lads around me on their use of the latter and asked loudly to no-one in particular why men are so fascinated with breasts and were they not breast fed as babies. 

While there are few women those that have accompanied their men folk are split between casual sports wear and what is affectionately known in the UK as 'totty': the smallest of dresses no matter the weather, the highest of heels, the longest of lashes and hair extensions. I blame the WAG effect at boxing matches and the endless shots of the glamorous partner who has to sit in the front row and watch her man get beaten up. And of course there are the William Hill Women who get to hold up the Round Number every three minutes. They must get some kudos for being able to get in and out of a ring in heels and mini without flashing a knicker. 

Sitting in my sneakers, thermals, cardigan and wool coat, with half a pint of real ale and a bag of pick 'n' mix, I was in a foreign land. Supporting Klitschko was also not helping given the uber-nationalism being whipped up in the stadium. I added the mental strength to lose in front of this crowd as one of the skills of boxing (as well as an ability for agile ducking by spectators to avoid pints of beer missiles), although in fairness, while it's not possible to say it was a good natured crowd, there was a cheer for Klitschko at the end. 

On the hour tube journey home this crowd dispersed as we looped through the city on the Jubilee line, stations north, west, south and finally east. I have no compass for their location but I'm wondering if it might not be important to take a GPS to them next time ... I have a feeling the future of this country is somehow tied up with this cohort of young men and what brings them together to chant mantras of belonging.