In a disused commercial unit – dwarfed by the 100ft red brick arches of Stockport Viaduct – and gleaming pale under the glare of a patchwork of fluorescent ceiling lamps, two lads are knocking lumps off each other.
Pressed in against the ropes of a makeshift boxing ring, a small crowd – a mix of gawps and grimaces – gazes on intently. Aside from the fighters, the only other person in the ring is Remdizz: today’s charismatic host, referee, and the self-described “hood’s Dana White”.
Videos by VICE
This is King of the Ring, a clandestine fight club that pops up monthly in rotating locations around Manchester, postcodes sent out by text a few days before the starting bell sounds.
With the last of the Sunday afternoon sun headed for the horizon, a steady trickle of spectators wound its way up this former boxing gym’s dusty stairs. Insulation panels pulled from the ceiling sit in piles next to old trophies and punched-out gloves. A burly doorman checks names, ticking off family, friends and curious onlookers with tickets. Despite the damp November chill, there’s a warm, anticipatory atmosphere in the building as tracks by local rappers eke out of a makeshift PA system and punters swig from Stella cans.
Nervy fighters – who put themselves forward via social media, before signing waivers and being matched by age, size, and experience – pace about, sweating under hoodies with drawstrings pulled tight as they hit heavy bags suspended from tomato-red scaffolds. The crowd, ranging in age from schoolkids to seniors but mostly populated by young men in a uniform of skin fades and tight tracksuits, slowly swells, claiming vantage points around the squared circle.
Today, there’ll be six bouts. Each contest comprises three one-minute rounds that disappear in a blur of arms and sweat, the thud and slap of leather on skin sending shouts from the crowd and pointed instructions from the fighters’ corners.
Remdizz – who only wanted to go by his nickname – twirls and waltzes and slides between the competitors, adjudicating, and then, when it’s all done, declaring a win, loss or draw. King Of The Ring, or KOTR, is his brainchild.
It began life in 2021, in a back garden with a ring consisting of foam-wrapped fence posts and a few strips of construction tape. Hampered by injuries over a three-year Muay Thai career, Remdizz had set out with a vision of building his own grassroots promotion that could surface new talent and, eventually, provide an income not just for himself but for others supplying food and drinks and dressing the fighters. (Today, there’s chicken, rice and peas, and mac and cheese laid on by a friend of his mum, and drinks dished out from cardboard boxes.)
In the 12 months since that first back garden scrap, KOTR has popped up in a pub, a car park and hosted match-ups in Birmingham and Amsterdam. Remdizz, still in his early twenties, wants to make today’s location a more permanent HQ, providing training facilities across a range of fighting disciplines. An instinctive entrepreneur, his vision is constantly expanding – but the guiding philosophy of KOTR is the one stamped in capital letters on the banner behind him, on the back of his T-shirt, and on the ring’s fastenings: “PUT DOWN THE KNIFE, USE YOUR LEFT AND RIGHT”.
By containing violence in controlled spaces, Remdizz believes he can offer a counter to the tide of serious youth violence that’s risen in his city by 200 percent over the past two years. “If you’ve got a problem with someone and it’s probably going to go to that point,” he says, “then bring it in here, squash it, go home. Everyone gets to live.” Previous events have included moments of silence for victims of knife crime, and fighters boxing in shirts printed with photos of friends who’ve passed.
“A lot of the fighters, as much as they might not be in a gang, they might be around gang people,” Remdizz explains once the fights are over. “They don’t want to be going on that path, but that’s the only path in front of them. They feel like this is the safe place where you can see fights and nothing dodgy’s going to happen after.”
He says he’s interested in the stories of the people arriving in his Instagram DMs. “We’ve had people who’ve been stabbed come and fight before, who’re coming from gang life, people who’ve come from hooligan backgrounds. And it’s never kicked off.”
A handful of neighbours at the backyard fights have complained about cars blocking the street when there’s an event on, but Remdizz says that’s the closest to trouble KOTR has ever come. Police and local authorities, he says, have been supportive once he explains what he’s trying to do. (Greater Manchester Police did not offer any comment when contacted by VICE.)
Remdizz sees his promotion as plugging a gap left by government cuts. Youth service provision has plunged in the past decade, with per-child funding in Manchester among the lowest in the country at just £8.38 (the nationwide country average is £37 – in 2010, it was £158). KOTR’s chosen locations have a few things in common: mostly backyards, different each time, and in areas around Manchester with historically low levels of opportunity for young people. They also – somewhat crucially for the growth of the brand – need to look good on camera.
Elbowing out the crowd pressed around the ring at each event is a gaggle of photographers and videographers, each craning for their shot. This is a critical element of KOTR, providing content for its growing online footprint.
All the action is filmed and posted on YouTube, where opaque algorithms push fight videos to fans of professional promotions like the UFC, DAZN, Bellator, and ONE — all of which have spent recent years building audiences in the hundreds of millions on the site.
Highlights are clipped up for TikTok and Instagram. The videos are brutal. Titles advertise knockouts and slugfests in capital letters; thumbnails are a collage of bloody noses and fists colliding with faces. The KOTR YouTube channel, which has clocked up over 10 million views in its first year, is one among many mean-mugging amateur broadcasts that feature unvarnished violence and basic setups, the most scabrous of which are based in Russia and Eastern Europe and take pride in a no limits approach to violence.
In the case of KOTR, the distance between the atmosphere on the day and the image presented online is vast. But being at the mercy of YouTube’s algorithm means you have to play to the extremes, and KOTR’s videos attract viewers – and competitors.
Some fighters are returning characters, while others, like Ryan Simpson – who’s travelled over from the Wirral with a couple of mates, all of them having a go in the ring – say they got off the couch last week and decided they wanted a scrap. “To get the steam off,” says Ryan.
Some fighters have nicknames, like Mighty Mouse, Dennis the Menace, and Blueface. Demornia Cantrill, 26, goes by Warlord. He previously competed in mixed martial arts, chalking a record of four wins and two losses on the regional scene. But then, he says, “life got in the way”. Having grown up in care, removed from a violent household, he pursued a career in the army; but after his brother was imprisoned for murder, Demornia returned home and worked in a school as a special needs assistant.
Serving a prison stint for domestic assault forced a life change: “Getting back to Plan A”, he says. At KOTR, he’s found a community, an outlet for his aggression, a platform from which he hopes to be scouted, and a message he can get behind.
“This is where it’s very close to me,” he says. “I’ve had friends who’ve died through knife crime, and my brother went to jail for, unfortunately, taking someone else’s life. I just want to help as many kids as possible.”
Boxing gyms have long steered young men off troubled paths. But now YouTube is catapulting that work – often a distorted view of it – onto a global platform. Is there a risk associated with untethering this violence from the controlled confines of the ring? Settling scores toe-to-toe in the arena is nice in practice, but what happens when fragile egos collide with an online comment section after a loss?
Remdizz is understanding. “There will be people who’ll be affected by a loss,” he says, “but they’ve come in, they’ve signed the waiver, and they understand what the Ts and Cs are: It’s going to go on the YouTube and it’s going to be seen by quite a lot of people. They know what they’ve got themselves into. And,” he adds, with a knowing smile, “the big thing I always tell them: Do not bother with the comments.”
These fighters come seeking release, and taking a punch becomes as much about finding respect for their opponent as it is seeking pride in themselves. “Win, lose, or draw, it doesn’t matter,” says Warlord. “As long as you go in there and make yourself proud.” Every bout on this Sunday ends in an embrace between the fighters, and the descent of a unique sense of calm over the competitors.
After getting his hand raised in victory, and with the fizz of adrenaline wearing off, Warlord comes over to explain why he keeps coming back to King Of The Ring. “The government ain’t doing nothing, nobody else is doing anything,” he says, his breathing slowing to a steady clip, “so if this can help, if it saves one life, then at least we did something.”
More
From VICE
-
-
-
Screenshot: Nintendo -
(Photo by Marcelo Endelli; Paramount Pictures via Getty Images)
