Dodgy Tackle: It's all about the Money and an Irish loose cannon in Mayweather v McGregor circus show

Floyd Mayweather and Conor McGregor are set to lock horns in Las Vegas in the early hours of Sunday morning
Picture by PA
Kevin Farrell

T-Mobile Arena, Las Vegas, Gaviscon o’clock, tomorrow morning.

MC: Roll up, roll up, step right in! For just a score of your hard-earned cabbage, watch a nauseating Irish loose cannon with no boxing experience chase shadows like Rocky in a chicken pen against a 49-0 boxer who you couldn’t like if you’d carried him in a womb for nine months in a crass boxing match worth millions to both doses...  

Ding ding, round one: Fifteen seconds in. Irish loose cannon realises it's impossible to lay a single eight-ounce mitt on a boxer more elusive than a kid full of Smak in Smyths on a Saturday.

Commentator Paulie Malignaggi, clearly squealing in pain from huge chips on both shoulders, tells millions watching on the pay-nothing-per-view dodgy live streams around the world that McGregor couldn’t beat snow off a top rope and that the footage of him chewing a ring apron in a spar the other week was actually some kid from in and around Omagh wearing a Paulie Malignaggi mask for the day.

Money, meanwhile, is arguably winning the fight so far, tickling the Dublin hipster’s golden toasted auburn facial fuzz with a flurry of quasi-affectionate jabs at 10-second intervals while skedaddling like Benny Hill on a 16-valve turbo diesel Segway in between his handy ‘hard work’ during a fairly tense opening three minutes.

Ding, ding, round two: Two minutes, 59 seconds have gone in a flash and Money throws the first punch of his unbeaten career. It’s a sweeping left hook at the 230 million dollar bills sitting inside a brand new Lonsdale schoolbag at inner ringside. Or is it an Everlast?

The bell goes, but nobody hears it on account of being fast asleep and what have you.

Irish loose cannon goes plan B and plumps for a rear naked choke, 100 million Benjis spilling like three months of trash talk from his back pocket and stuffed boots.

Paulie whips out a cordless Flymofo garden-vac from absolutely nowhere and starts cleaning up rightly...  

McGregor kicks those loose boots off like a bricklayer at Friday lunchtime and locks his chiselled tootsies against Paulie’s flanks, twists one arm around Paulie’s neck with his forearm pushing against one side of the throat and his inflated bicep taking care of the other.

Sweet science and then some, Buncey...

Paulie’s carotid artery arguably seems to be slightly up against it here on all three judges’ cards as the referee and Money both have long looks at the action from neutral corners.

This sleeper hold may just turn the fight in Loose Irish cannon’s favour.  

The bell goes again, only louder, to save Paulie’s bacon as some oxygen finally returns to his cerebral cortex and respiratory centres etcetera.

The lovely dough is shovelled back into the boots by all of Conor’s bezzies in the 60 seconds prior to round three. Wowzers. Just wowzers...

Ding, ding, round three: We’re back on course here and Paulie is back in his seat ringside, killing dead things at in and around 300 words per minute. A shorthand nightmare.

Conor’s people tell him he has two rounds left to win this fight with Money before he spontaneously combusts, never to be seen again... until the Malignaggi rematch, anyway.

Only one thing for it now. Conor roars ‘F**k the Mayweathers’ like He-Man on spuds and goes full Gogoplata on it (ask your sprogs).

With his legs hooked under Money’s da’s chins, he pulls Money’s da’s head down until his shins are squashing Money’s da’s jugular.

It’s a bit like Twister when you’re drunk, only really sore.

Money taps out in a neutral corner because he loves his oul’ Da despite all the fall-outs and stuff down the years over money and he still has another 230 mill in the bank at the end of the day.

Paulie asks Conor for a tap until his next pay cheque – but Conor is instantly disqualified for acting the total and utter bollix.

With the Marquess of Queensberry still turning in her grave, everyone – Paulie included – heads to bed at six bells on a Sunday morning to wonder what the future now holds for boxing after yet another complete and utter disgrace to the noble art.

Where do we go from here, eh? The fridge, I reckon.

Don’t forget where you heard it first, fight fans...

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