A Cold Day for Violence

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You're listening to the Away Days podcast on the ground outside reporting from the underbelly with me Jake Hanrahan

To watch away days documentaries go to youtube.com slash at awaydays TV

This is part one no rules is no rules episode one

This podcast is a production of H11 Studio and CoolZone Media

England

It's a cold day for violence.

The ground's frosty and the air hurts.

Gloves and scarves weather.

Either way, violence is happening.

Two men have agreed to attack each other at a pre-arranged location in Hastings, UK.

I'm driving through southern back roads headed to the desolate seaside town where the fight is due to take place.

I'm an outsider to all involved and true, they all hate journalists but still I've been trusted to attend.

This planned combat isn't about solving a dispute though.

The two men have no hatred or real animosity toward one another.

They just want to fight.

Not in a ring or with gloves or with rounds though.

This is something else.

There will be no judges or sporting organisations.

No health checks or even a waiting.

No safety gear and no precautions.

The fight won't be televised and there will will be no official sponsors.

It's important to understand that this is not unlicensed MMA, street beef or bare knuckle boxing.

This is a new form of organised violence.

People involved have coined it no rules.

And yes no rules means no rules.

Anything goes.

Kicking, punching, head butting, elbows, knees, eye gouging, head stamping, choking and even biting.

What's more authentic no rules has to take place on concrete or something equivalent.

Hard floors and no rules.

It's as extreme as it gets.

Google Maps pings.

I've got to reach a location the fighters texted to me yesterday.

Then I've got to wait.

I'm close.

I pull onto a side road through a small wooded area and follow the route ahead.

It's mid-January and the sun's going down fast.

The sky is red and orange.

You can feel the outside cold inside the car.

It's hardly ideal fighting weather.

My phone rings.

Caller ID Joey Hapgood.

How you doing, mate?

You alright?

Yeah, just close up my hand.

Oh, yeah,

you're at the car park, yeah?

Yeah, where are you at?

Alright, we were just driving about.

I'll head up there now.

How far do we live?

Like a minute?

minute?

Alright mate.

Alright bye bye.

Alright cool.

Joey is a street fighter from South Wales.

He's 27 years old and by far one of the most energetic people in the UK.

If methamphetamine was a person it'd be Joey.

Most times I speak with him he's absolutely bouncing off the wall.

He's extremely friendly and very genuine.

He can only be himself.

It's a contagious energy honestly.

Perhaps at odds with his happy demeanor, Joey is desperate to make a name for himself in the underground fight scene.

He's tough as bricks and scared of nobody and as an up-and-comer he's hungry to prove himself.

Generally no rules is organized through illegal fight clubs but Joey's ready anywhere.

I reach the location, a large but otherwise nondescript car park surrounded by trees and street lights.

When I get out the car, I hear Joby before I see him.

He's with a few friends and he's already shadow boxing on the spot, casting rapid phosphor-coated shadows.

He laughs loudly every few seconds.

He can't wait.

We shake hands and he hugs me like an old friend, but this is the first time we've met.

You know where we're going?

No, yeah, yeah, I've got to get picked up in a bag.

I'm gonna get picked up in a VG wagon, apparently, but

fucking soulmates.

Joey looks like a character from the video game Mortal Kombat.

He's about 5'10, stocky, all muscle.

Blue eyes as bright as his white teeth.

He's got three different haircuts in one.

Bleach blonde down the middle, shaved to zero at the sides, long mullet style tail down the back with black highlights.

His neck is peppered with tattoos, including a 666 next to a Jesus crucifix.

He wears a George Michael earring and keeps his beard short but dyed black.

The dye leaves perfect lines across his face so it looks as if he sprayed the whole beard on with a stencil.

I've never seen anyone like it.

He's a sight to behold.

Joey has travelled 200 miles from Port Talbot to be here at this random car park in Hastings.

It's took him five hours.

He's come to fight an old school no-rules fighter nicknamed Bash.

The pair organized the fight over Instagram direct messages.

Joey's dream is to be respected in the clandestine no rules scene.

But it can, you know, and it's a life or death situation.

It can be, but it can be easily he's not wrong the man he's about to fight is notorious in the underground for biting off a piece of another man's ear in a no-rules fight a couple years back

The brawl took place in a closed mechanics garage and despite permanently disfiguring his opponent with his teeth, Bash actually lost that fight.

He was knocked to the ground by his opponent who then pushed both thumbs deep into Bash's eye sockets.

Bash screaming was then saved by the makeshift referee who stopped the fight.

There are only two ways for no rules to end.

Either you get knocked out or you get beaten so badly the appointed referee steps in.

Referee in this case is a loose term.

It's basically anyone involved who's allocated as the guy who has to stop the fight when a one-sided beating continues for an extended period.

Some stop the fight when head stamping or eye gouging starts, others don't.

There's no rulebook.

The only use for a towel in No Rules is to mop up the blood.

Yes, it is brutal.

Now to put it lightly, Bash has been on a bit of a losing streak as of late.

People in the scene have accused him of being washed up saying that he can't stay sober for a fight anymore.

Bash argues that he doesn't care win or lose.

He'll fight anyone, anywhere, sober or not.

He claims to see no rules as a game, a bit of a laugh.

Problem is, Bash is 45 now.

That's 18 years Joey's senior.

The potential risk of irreversible damage is considerably higher for a man of his age, but still, Bash doesn't care.

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A black Aldi hatchback with two younger lads in bubble north face coats pulls up to the car park.

We're all huddled waiting for instructions.

It's fully dark now.

The lads jump out and introduce themselves.

It's clear that they're not fighters, just messengers.

In thick northern accents they explain that Joey and his guys are to go with them and I'm to follow behind in my car.

Two of us, two of us and then two with them.

Yeah, we're gonna follow you in our car.

Yeah, yeah, spot on the bottom.

Joey flings on his jacket and jumps into the back of the Audi with one of his friends.

I follow in my car, Joey's entourage follows in theirs.

We drive through the middle of Hastings in a small convoy.

Our headlights flood past neon petrol stations and blocks of flats for what feels like forever.

We finally arrive at a built-up residential street close to the fight destination.

A dozen of Bash's people are waiting, a blur of North Face and Stone Island.

Bash emerges from the middle of his crowd.

He's about 6 foot tall, broad, covered in tattoos.

He's half Arab, half white, and has a face worn from years of brawling.

Coincidentally, he too has a 666 and a crucifix tattooed on his neck.

Joey hops out the car.

He's aggressive, all action, ready to go.

He's pushing past people who are trying to keep him back.

Joey is transformed.

The mad as a hatter, smiley demeanor is gone.

He now looks like an angry dog let out a cage.

Take him off, get ready for action to do it off from the kitchen.

This lad shouting is a big lump from up north who previously fought Bash and won.

He'll be the makeshift referee for this fight.

Joey and Bash are having words and there's call for calm from the gathering crowd.

Bash turns back with his guys and they move off the pavement and down a side road.

Bright headlights spill out from the shadows.

That's where the fight's happening.

The makeshift ref emerges a couple minutes later and waves for us to come.

Joey pulls off his coat, tenses his shoulders and strides up the path.

He's wearing a t-shirt by the underground fightwear brand Militant, an emerging force in the British hooligan and no rules scene.

The logo is a knuckle duster wired across the chest.

Fitting.

We turn a corner.

It's here.

About 50 square feet of fuck all.

The scene is lit with headlights from a boxy Land Rover defender packed at the back.

The floor is rough concrete, jaggled and specked with grit for wear and tear.

If your head hits this, it's bursting open.

Bash is stood at one end of his space, moving on his feet, fluttering the defender's headlights.

Joey bowls in.

His back is up like a dog when a firework goes off.

At each side people stand watching, their phones up ready to record.

The lady shouting has a phone torch on bright as she films.

She stood next to Bash.

I recognise her.

I've seen her online.

It's his wife.

She's his biggest fan and could be heard cheering him on during most of his fight videos.

It's kind of romantic honestly.

Joey's boys cheer him on as he approaches Bash.

There's a brief pause.

Both fighters stare at each other for a second.

The tension is in the air heavy like fog.

Then bang.

Bash leaps towards Joey, throwing a spinning back kick.

It misses.

Joey throws a stiff right jab into Bash's face.

He's knocked off balance, dropped.

Bash hits the concrete.

Joey moves over him but stops.

For whatever reason, both fighters decided beforehand that they wanted to do no rules but with one rule.

They wanted to do a stand-up fight as in no groundwork.

but with no gum shields.

Makes no sense to me, but that's the chaotic realness of no rules fighting.

The ref moves in so Bash can stand up.

Off they go again.

Joey kicks Bash and throws two huge hooks.

Bash kicks Joey and throws back.

The both end up in a tangle of sweeping punches.

Some miss, some land.

Joey is all power, pushing forward, grabbing, punching.

Bash looks tired, but he's fighting and he's definitely sober for this one.

The crowd is on fire at this point.

The two men swing it out in the shadow of the headlights.

After around a minute or so, Joey grabs Bash and lands three solid jabs in his jaw.

Bash goes down again and scrapes his head off a brick wall.

Is he leaving Bash?

Give to him.

Give Joey.

Come on, Bash.

Ref lets him get up, but he shakes his head as he does.

It's over.

Joey is fuming.

He's fucking done.

I swear to you!

So first, say we are.

Joey's eyes are wired with adrenaline.

His fists still clenched.

Joey wants more.

I can tell he's not happy.

Is that it, no?

Nothing else.

No!

Nothing else, huh?

No.

Come on.

Let's have a drink then, lads.

Come on, lads.

What are you seeming disappointed?

Getting fucking disappointed?

It's a bit disappointing.

Didn't we do it for the cuts?

What happened then?

He just give up, man.

Fight.

Bash has had enough, though.

The fight is over.

So what's happened is basically Bash has just said, you know, he's done.

He didn't want to fight anymore.

Joey's come up here expecting like a much bigger tear up.

He's a little bit disappointed.

I think he wanted to continue fighting, but

now they're going to have a drink party and everything's good.

So I guess

that's how it works.

If you'd seen all this from the sidelines without knowing anyone involved, you'd be forgiven for thinking it was some kind of blood feud.

But Bash and Joey are now shaking hands and getting on like old friends.

There's a perception, of course, of street fighting men that Joey doesn't agree with.

I'm not a bad person, like I won't do it.

I ain't no bully.

I fucking hate bullies.

I don't know, it's kind of odd until you, unless you know us, but they're the ones missing out, you know.

They don't know how much kind-hearted we are.

Yes, we are mad, crazy people because we fight bare fists in the street, no rules, all this and that.

But you know, it doesn't matter.

It is what it is.

If people can think what the fuck they want, don't give a shit.

I first heard about no rules in 2022 through a friend of mine who's a long-time football hooligan.

Don't gonna be on top

Not the original British kind where pub men suited in Stone Island and Aquascootum would fight throughout the streets and stadiums, but the European version where well-trained combat-ready firms meet secretly to fight in secluded forests around match days and derbies.

Naturally, this hooligan friend of mine has his ear to the ground when it comes to organised violence.

He showed me videos from some early No Rules events.

The fight where the guy got part of his ear bitten off, a fight where someone is head-botted unconscious, a fight where a screaming starred up neo-Nazi has his eyes pushed in with an eye gouge.

It goes on and on.

Serious, ruthless, but consensual violence.

All of the fights in the videos were arranged by King of the Streets or COTS.

Essentially the Tyler Durden of contemporary underground no rules fighting.

COTS is run by a group known as Hype Crew.

Hype Crew is made up of hooligans, organized criminals and seasoned street fighters.

They pretty much birthed No Rules as far back as 2018.

At first, Hype Crew filmed these organized fights on the streets in Sweden.

On concrete, no rules, no federation, no protection.

All raw.

They uploaded the videos to YouTube under the COTS banner.

The channel eventually blew up gaining over 1 million subscribers in the space of 6 years.

And so, Hype Crew created what has now become one of the most hardcore countercultures to emerge in Europe for decades.

Now there are several no rules fight clubs completely unaffiliated with COTS.

I found them in Germany, England, Sweden, Spain, France, Denmark and beyond.

Don't get it confused though, everyone involved with this is aware that no rules fighting is not a sport.

No one cares about the money.

Hype Crew themselves started COTS for free.

After their success they now pay fighters anywhere from 600 to over 1000 euros if they win, also paying for all travel and accommodation for the fight.

Losers, it's said, get around half that if they put on a good show, nothing if if they don't.

The money is hardly the point though.

Nobody involved in no rules fighting is doing it for a paycheck.

This isn't about profit, it's about adrenaline and exclusivity.

As Hype Crew Associate and Undefeated COTS fighter Brian Hoy says, your favourite fighter's favourite fighter is scared to do this shit.

What Hype Crew has created is not a combat sport, it's a counterculture.

Whilst the violent counterculture of no rules is new, organized no holds-barred fighting is actually as old as time.

It dates back to at least the 8th century where men in ancient Greece would brawl for fun, entertainment and glory.

They had a specific style known as pancration,

which it can be argued was an ancient progenitor to Hypecrew's No Rules.

Pancration was a combination of boxing and wrestling with almost zero physical restrictions.

The only real rules were no biting and no eye gouging.

The Greeks believed that the mythic hero Theseus created the fighting style whilst defeating the Minotaur, a half-bull, half-man monster.

The historical channel Up for Education run by a former martial arts teacher has this to say about the sport.

Despite its seemingly ruthless nature, Pencration was not just about brute strength.

It required a tactical mindset, a deep understanding of leverage, timing and the ability to anticipate an opponent's moves.

It was a true testament to an athlete's physical prowess and mental agility.

And so the aim of Pancretion was to incapacitate your opponent as brutally as is allowed.

It was hugely popular in ancient Greece and was one of the main events of the Olympic Games after being introduced in 648 BC.

There's pottery, mosaics mosaics and even bronze sculptures from that era that celebrate fighting.

One of the best preserved examples is the terme boxer, a sculpture that was made somewhere between 330 BC and 50 BC.

The relic was dug up out the ground in 1885 on the side of Cruinal Hill in Rome.

The sculpture depicts a lean bearded fighter sat on a rock, hands wrapped and expression tired after what was clearly a brutal fight.

Half a dozen cuts are etched into the bronze of his face.

His shoulders are slightly hunched.

The muscles he's built are for violence, not for vanity.

Now all that is to say, ultra-aggressive organised fighting is not just a symptom of our nightmarish, sickened, lying modern society, but actually a natural practice as old as ancient Greece.

So perhaps those involved in no rules have the same fire in their belly as the pancration fighters of old.

I want to find out by attending as many of these clandestine events as possible.

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Whilst researching the no-rules theme, I came across a small but new underground fight club looking to recruit.

They're extremely low-key, but asking around on the Telegram app for fighters.

No one will be paid but they get to fight.

I messaged the anonymous user looking to learn more about this fight club.

At first he was naturally suspicious but after we spoke a while he seemed to accept that I wasn't undercover law enforcement or some rat type reporter looking to do a hit piece on underground fight clubs.

I showed him that I am genuinely fascinated with the counterculture and I'm looking to make a documentary about no rules.

I showed him my previous work with my platform Popular Front and he liked it.

I also explained that I myself have been involved in combat sports since I was 14 years old having joined up at a tie boxing gym as a teenager.

I still train there to this day regularly and I consider the people there part of my family.

I understand the combat sports camaraderie to some degree.

The anonymous user accepted it and he told me his name is Leon.

Leon and his friends were inspired by King of the Streets years back when it first got popular on YouTube.

They were teenagers at the the time, g'd up on adolescent angst and the general mischief of bored young men, they decided to fight each other in the vein of cots.

At first they did it only amongst themselves, holding their first low-key gathering in a parking lot.

They liked it a lot.

When they realized though that a police station was close by to the parking lot where they were fighting, they decided to find a better location and put on a proper event.

This is why they were on Telegram looking for fighters.

The first proper fight fight club would be open to anyone, even a persistent and probably annoying journalist from England.

They decided I'd be allowed to attend on the condition I protect their identities.

Of course, I agreed.

It took three weeks of this back and forth, but we sorted it.

Next stop, France.

Now I'm stepping off a plane in the south of France.

We don't actually have the address for where this fight club is.

All we know is is they're going to be contacting us at some point and telling me when and where and we've got to move quick whenever it is that they say.

Now when I say south of France you might be surprised to know that we're literally in Cannes, the fancy film festival city where Hollywood movie stars come to act important.

A place where the rich and famous fawn over each other and quough champagne.

A place where films directed for other directors are screened and applauded.

Cannes is hardly the place for an underground no rules fight club.

But here I am.

As I walk with my bag on my back en route to a cheap three-day hotel, I pass by Rolex shops and Gucci stores.

The streets are clean, palm trees line the roads and I can see literal yachts in the harbour.

Where the hell is Leon and his mates planning to fight?

I'm starting to think something is not right here.

It has just occurred to me that this might all be a bit of a stitch-up.

So why would there be a brutal no-rules fight club in one of the flashiest cities in Europe?

Cannes of all places, where film makers that think they're too important go to stare in the mirror whilst playing their films.

Maybe Leon's wound me up here.

Maybe he's thought, you know what?

I don't like reporters.

I'm going to send this idiot on a wild goose chase chase and waste his money and just tell him that the fight club is in cannon see if he goes there and uh well here i am so

it's part of it doesn't add up to be honest it's so flash around here i can't see it being where would they even have it anyway i don't know we'll see to be fair if he has if he has done that

it's annoying as it would be uh

Kind of fair play like it's a pretty good wind-up if that's what he's done, but I hope not

After checking in at the hotel I get a message on telegram from another anonymous user.

He tells me his name is Victor and he's running the Cannes fight club with Leon.

I tried to chat to him for a bit but he's not interested.

He sends me coordinates and tells me to meet him there at midnight.

No cameras, no equipment.

It's a solid 30 minute drive away from my hotel in what looks to be a gated community.

A place where rich people live, especially rich if it's in Cannes.

At least that's what it looks like on Google Maps.

This has got to be a trick.

I'm sure now that I've traveled all the way to Cannes just to be mugged off by some rowdy young fighters who've no regard for what I'm trying to document.

Whatever, it is what it is.

Either way, I tell this Victor Fella that I'll be there at midnight.

See you there.

Let's see what happens.

You've been listening to the Away Days podcast, next week, episode 2.

To watch independent away days documentaries, subscribe to our channel at youtube.com slash at awaydays TV.

The Away Days Podcast is a production of H11 Studio for CoolZone Media.

Reporting, producing, writing, Editing and Research by me, Jake Hanrahan.

Co-producing by Sophie Lichterman.

Music by Sam Black.

Sound mix by Splicing Block.

Photography by Johnny Pickup and Louis Hollis.

Graphic design by Laura Adamson and Casey Highfield.

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Visit shop.colgate.com/slash total.

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