IT WAS a relentless year, it really was, with so many fights and nights and miles and waits. The last boxing weekend of the year was no exception.
On Friday, I went to Errol Johnson’s show at the Hangar in Wolverhampton. It was freezing, snow on the floor, the venue thick with frozen breath and vape and dry ice; the ring was shrouded in a fog, much like a night at Wembley in the ’70s.
Errol came over, emerging from the smoke, shaking his head. “I had 10 fights last week,” he said.
