The Underground Fight Clubs of the English Cotswolds

The first rule of Snowshill fight club is: you don’t talk about Snowshill fight club.

The second rule of Snowshill fight club is: take your shoes off before you come in.

The Cotswolds is a rural area in southern England famed for quaint villages and stunning scenery. Tourists flock to this area every year to admire the beautiful cottages and sleepy English villages, a perfect snapshot of stereotypical British life. What we’ll bet you don’t know, however, is that come nightfall, a new, dark scene is growing among the picturesque villages. The Cotswolds has been taken over by underground fight clubs.

The fight clubs are thought to have originated in the hamlet of Snowshill, with a population of 164 at the last head count. Local rumour has it that during one Sunday morning sermon by the good Reverend Pearce, Karl Rogers, local bastard, crashed through the church doors. Out of his mind after a 12-hour Wetherspoons drinking session, Rogers began brandishing a 2×4 wooden plank at the churchgoers and screaming like a banshee. The horrified congregation, convinced it was the work of the Devil, began stampeding to the exits. When the exits became too crowded, good honest Christians began flinging themselves through the stained glass windows to escape. Witnessing the distress of his congregation, Reverend Pearce is reported to have said “Right, you little shit,” before rolling up his sleeves and giving Karl ‘Bastard’ Rogers a jolly good pummelling.

That fateful day awoke something inside the good reverend. Despite his attempts to quell the lust for violence awakened in him, Reverend Pearce was found in increasingly compromising situations, such as shadow boxing in front of a widescreen TV showing MMA, and throttling the other parents at his son’s soccer match. He was at one point spotted on the hard shoulder of the M5 highway attempting to ‘hunt’ cars with a large metal pole he had acquired. In the weeks that followed, he took to wearing a red leather jacket and requesting people call him ‘Knuckles’.

As an outlet for his newly acquired bloodlust, Rev. Knuckles and Karl ‘Bastard’ Rogers began regular meetings in the car park of the Scott’s Arms carvery, where they would beat lumps out of each other through the long summer nights. Over time, they began to draw crowds, primarily the bored, workshy waitresses of the pub. It wasn’t long before the waitresses joined the action, led by mighty barmaid Bertha Grotter and her formidable left hook.

Kept awake by blood curdling screams and deep-throated war cries, nearby residents complained of the noise. The fights were forced to move underground, into the crypt beneath the parish church. Tuesday night fight club was only held here once, as there was quite a bit of damp and the local baker, Jim Griswald, developed a bit of a sore throat as a result. Consequently, the vicious bloodfests were moved again, finding a home in the beige carpeted basement of Reverend Knuckles. The local reading group also convene here, however the two separate clubs have learned to coexist, and plastic sheets are draped to prevent any of various fluids which are flying around from splashing the reading group’s literature.

For any bold travellers searching for the ultimate thrill, the fights are held between 7pm and 9pm on a Tuesday evening. Casual dress is encouraged due to the energetic nature of the sessions. Smoking isn’t permitted in the basement, although the Reverend has kindly permitted use of his private greenhouse for anyone keen to smoke/get laid/shoot up. Early birds can catch a warm up in the form of a free yoga session from 6pm, courtesy of local botanist Doris Piggle. Arrive early to guarantee a place. Post-brawl, between 9pm and 10pm the Reverend and Ian ‘Slugger’ Braithwaite will provide tea, scones and, if necessary, CPR.

Bring your friends for a guaranteed evening of charming entertainment, locally sourced produce, and spectacular violence.

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