Turley - Journeymen: the other side of the boxing business: a new perspective on the noble art

T HE York Hall is going absolutely volcanic. Its halcyon days may have been back in the 1950s but on this 21st century evening it is transformed again into the bellicose, sweaty bear-pit that made it world famous. Clouds of evaporated testosterone and beer swirl under the lights.

Theres only one Buglioni! the fans crammed into the upper tier scream in chorus. There are more than 500 of them up there, wearing matching blue t-shirts, with Team Buglioni across the back and Pride emblazoned across the chest. They have paid 40 each for a seat but none of them are sitting. One Buglioni! Walking along, singing a song, walking in a Frankie wonderland!

The opening notes of their heros theme music blast from the PA. His arrival is imminent. In deference to his Neapolitan heritage, the north London idol has chosen Seven Nation Army by the White Stripes for his ring-walks. The countrymen of his grandfather sing it in football stadia before the Italian national team play their home games. He emerges from the dressing room, robeless, shadow-boxing vigorously, clenching then unclenching his jaw and the rabble roar like Spartans. He swings hooks at the air with both hands and begins a slow walk to the ring, matchmaker/ cornerman Dean Powell behind him, trainer Mark Tibbs in front, a mini procession of London boxing nobility. Arms around each others shoulders, the mob jump up and down, fists raised to the rafters, singing along to the riff. Boh, bo, bo, bo, boh, bohhh, boh!

Frank Wise Guy Buglioni is one of a new breed of professional pugilists. From Winchmore Hill, in the London borough of Enfield, an extremely affluent suburban area boasting family properties worth in excess of 5m, the ghetto-fighter stereotype could not be further from his reality. While generations of boxers have arrived in the public eye via the school of hard knocks, Frank emerged as a star pupil from an outstanding, over-subscribed secondary then took up a place at Westminster University to read Building Surveying. He found that once there, however, something set him apart from his fellow students.

A gifted athlete who excelled at most sports, he had ventured into a boxing club as a 14-year-old boy and fallen, like legions of lost souls before him, madly in love with it. Intoxicated, the lure of the ring proved too much. Frank quit life as an undergraduate to fight full-time.

His phalanx of fans hold smartphones and tablets aloft as Tibbs parts the ropes for him. Frank stands momentarily still by the ring apron, giving them all a good shot, spawning tomorrows blog entries and YouTube videos. His career will be lived out in the age of the internet where every move is broadcast a thousand times. He touches gloves to the outstretched fists of a couple of die-hards in the front row and then hes in there, that 20-foot square, roped and raised platform where he has chosen to seek his fortune.

If not for the incessant demands of the boxing lifestyle, which if attended to properly are all-consuming, the kid could have been a model. He has a boy-next-door face, a toothpaste-advert smile and the clean physique of a classical statue. Girls go nuts for him, boys wish they were him. To complete the package, he is also a genuinely nice individual, with a word and time for everyone.

This appealing combination of attributes has made him one of British boxings hottest young properties. Off the back of a successful amateur career, which saw him pick up 60 wins from 70 fights without quite scaling the peaks of Olympic or international glory, he signed to Frank Warren promotions, one of the UKs biggest outfits, at the age of 22. They have invested in him and expect a return. Buglioni carries this with him, on those broad shoulders, every time he climbs through the ropes. He is required to win, to be the shining star they all want him to be and he knows it.

This night, his fifth professional contest, is no different. He must live up to the hype. As the massed ranks of the Buglioni Bloc continue to sing his name he plants his feet on the canvas, looks up and salutes them, gladiator-style, with both fists. The hall quivers at the volume of their response.

While the young star limbers loosely and bounces around the ring, weaving between officials, anticipating the action, testing the ropes, someone waits for him. Across the way, from the other corner, Frank makes fleeting eye-contact with his opponent.

His adversary is egg-bald, staring, motionless with an expression that manages to be both malevolent and light-hearted. He has a rugged, rather than chiselled build and a pale, Nordic complexion. He wears the slightest of smiles. Put a horned helmet on his head and you could imagine him raiding Saxon villages, brandishing a battle-axe. He looks like a loon.

Jody Meikle grew up on the Riddings estate in Scunthorpe, north Lincolnshire. There are no million-pound houses there. By day he is a roofer and before the fight had been at work until 1pm, allowed to knock off early by an understanding boss. He travelled down the M1 in his manager Carl Greavess car, eating lunch on the way, with his girlfriend tagging along for a night out in London. By 6pm, when he reached the venue, the mornings graft and four-hour journey had drained his enthusiasm.

On arrival he lay down wearily in the dressing room, closing his eyes, contemplating sleep. For a while he wished he could be somewhere else but the noise of the crowd revived him. When he heard Buglionis crew take up their throaty chants, adrenaline kicked in. He sat bolt upright, grabbed Greaves by the shoulders and shouted, Come on!

Back in his home town, Jodys reputation is unshakeable. The One Man Riot will have it with anyone. End of. Even the bouncers are scared of him. He has fought regularly since childhood, just not usually with gloves and rules. He has had three spells in prison. If Buglioni dared take him on in the street, Meikle would eat him up and spit him out inside a minute. But this is different, Marquess of Queensberry, the sport of gentlemen, with a referee and an arena full of spectators.

The north London legion hiss and shout insults as the MC, a former child actor from Grange Hill, reads Meikles name. Jodys girl, sitting at ringside, is reduced to tears by the hostility in the air. A lesser man, fighting hundreds of miles from home with barely a friend in the house might feel intimidated, but not the Riot. He nods eagerly, spreads his arms, embraces the boos and grins broadly, manically, like a Halloween pumpkin. He is absolutely loving it.

The fight follows the expected pattern with Frank taking centre ring from the start and hunting his foe down. He launches assault after assault in his upright, typically European style, working in straight lines jab, right hand, jab, jab, right hand. Defying logic, Jody sometimes lowers his guard, almost seeming to invite the punches in.

Buglioni is known as a banger. Three of his first four wins have finished in less than a round but Meikle takes and takes his shots, to the extent that sometimes his smooth white head resembles a ping-pong ball attached to a bat on a short string, being swatted back and forth. After every volley of blows bouncing off his cranium, Jody grins his mad, pumpkin grin and walks forward again. Sometimes he catches Buglioni with his own fists, the youngsters defence is by no means impregnable, but Frank is too quick and sharp, too well trained for him to sustain any pressure.

While the Wise Guy has been training for this night since his last bout at the end of April, conditioning himself daily with the famous trainer of champions, Jimmy Tibbs, Meikle, by contrast, was only told about it ten days before. It is all his role requires. Frank works with a nutritionist, a fitness coach and uses a state of the art cryotherapy chamber to aid recovery after workouts. Free time is regulated. He lives the life, as boxers say. Jody fits training in around his job, running up and down Scammonden Dam by the side of the M62 and doing a couple of evenings in the gym when he can. He likes a curry and is partial to the odd drink. To ensure he made weight, he stopped boozing a few days before the bout.