It was Mister Out on the phone.  Come on down to the George, he said.  Have a look at the weigh-in.

The weigh-in? I was a little taken aback.  The weigh-in?  Is that where they take off all their clothes and shout obscenities at each other?

No, he said.  You’re thinking of a night club.  This is where the two boxers get weighed to make sure neither of them is overweight.

Oh, I’d say these guys are very fit, I told him.  I wouldn’t imagine they’re overweight.

Jesus, I could hear him mutter under his breath.  Look, just come to the George.  You’ll be glad you did.

Will it be full of East-end spivs and Cockney wide-boys?

It will, he said in the voice grown-ups use for particularly stupid children.

I thought the place would be full of fat sweaty men wearing braces and broad-brimmed hats covered in bookie-slips, but it wasn’t.  It was full of purposeful-looking men of every age from teens to seventies, all of them solid-looking, quiet, composed and very, very tough-looking.

For some reason, there are two uniformed cops here, and I can’t help thinking, Jesus, if a fight breaks out, those coppers would be well-advised to head for the door fast.

I also thought a weigh-in was someplace you couldn’t just walk into, but I was wrong about that too.  All around, in this very nice boutique hotel, lunchtime patrons were eating, chatting, reading their papers and ignoring the media scrum in the restaurant area overlooking the street.

Where were all the grizzled old coaches?  Where was Mickey Goldmill?  Where was Charlie Goldman?  Andy’s coach, for some reason, isn’t a  limping, cigar-chewing old battler.  No.  Andy’s coach is Joey Gamache, a former two times world champ at super featherweight and lightweight, who could easily be mistaken for one of today’s fighters if it wasn’t for his beard.

My preconceptions are falling apart.

The boxers emerge from the ctowd and line up obediently for the cameras.

Belghecham strips off and steps on the scales.  He’s shorter than Andy by maybe six inches, but stronger-looking.  Maybe Andy should keep this guy at arm’s length in the interests of health and safety.  Belghecham makes the weight. He mutters something to Andy, and neither of them look particularly aggressive.  They’re just going to beat the shit out of each other tomorrow night, but that’s nothing personal.

Andy steps up with a grin, and he makes the weight too, so we’re all set.

They stand for a picture together, the stylised mock punch not very menacing.  They don’t bother to trade insults or threats.  These guys aren’t vicious like Tyson. They’re not even Chris Eubank.

They stand around some more for the cameras, and then it’s over.  Andy wanders out to the lobby where he cheerfully signs posters of the fight.  Mr Out engages him in conversation and they both stroll off down the street.  What are they talking about?  Who knows?  Andy looks so relaxed, he could be discussing tomorrow night’s soccer match against the French.

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