It's a steamy night here in the Knowsley Working Men's Club, in Knowsley, Manchester. For tonight's bout only, the organisers have waived their No Women policy but many slightly deranged working class men (it's the lead in their bloodstream) are muttering darkly, and lightly too, and expectorating heavily against the walls (it's the coal dust in their lungs). The promoter Manny Rayner clambers heavily into the ring. 
 "Thang yew, thang yew, lads, this next fight is an elimination bout, three falls, one submission or death to decide the winner. In the BLUE corner, we have the mild mannered yet steely protofeminist from Thornton, Yorkshire, Miss Jane....EEEEEYYYYRRRREEEEE...." 
 Scattered indifferent applause. Jane, clad in full length governess attire but with ridiculous bright red boxing gloves tied to each hand, storms to the side of the ring and shouts a torrent of abuse at the assembled grinders, mashers and collier lads. They tell her to fuck off. She tells them to fuck off. They don't fuck off and neither does she. 
 "Thang yew, thang yew, and in the RED corner we have.... The Man from La Mancha himself, DON.... QUIXOTE ... 'ere, where the fuck is he?" 
 There's no one at all in the red corner. Jane capers to the middle of the ring mouthing obscenities and shadow boxing madly. She grabs the microphone from Manny. 
 "The man from la Mancha 
 Is a bit of a wanker 
 E -I-O, E-I-O" 
 "Give us the fuck that back" says Manny, and seizes back the mike. Just then a galloping sound begins to emerge from outside the doors of the club. A couple of grinders open the doors, peer outside, then flatten themselves against the wall. Don Quixote is riding towards the club on his trusty horse LADY GAGA dressed in full armour, with a lance and all that medieval gubbins. He can't stop. He comes belting in through the door and LADY GAGA, seeing a boxing ring right in the way, comes to a screeching halt. The Don goes flying. Up up up, then down down down, smack bang onto the centre of the boxing ring and through it with a great crash. Manny and a couple of collier lads peer down into hole. Manny takes up the mike again. 
 "Thang yew gentlemen, tonight's elimination celebrity death match has been won by a technical knockout, tonight's champion is... put your hands together... Miss Jane Eyre...!" 
 Cries of "Who the fuck cares". Jane strides about bigging herself up and gobbing down into the hole where the dead Quixote lies in his mangled gore. She's off her head now. "I told you but you weren't listening - well, who's the governess now? Eh? Eh? No, YOU fuck off! I AM THE GOVERNESSATOR! Yeah, me, not you, loser!" 
 Later Jane writes in her journal. 
 Reader, it is not pleasant to dwell on these details. Some say there is enjoyment in looking back to painful experiences past; but at this day I can scarcely bear to review the times to which I allude: the moral degradation, blent with physical suffering, form too distressing a recollection ever to be willingly dwelt on. 
 I blamed none of those who repulsed me. I felt it was what was to be expected, and what could not be helped: a boxing match, nay a celebrity death match. It was humiliating, true. It was not a noble occupation. The persons who saw me then for the first time, and who knew nothing about my character would have drawn lamentable conclusions. And as to the outcome, where it was not sinister and cruel it was piffling. Let me condense now. I am sick of the subject. I know not when I shall have to fight again.