Check out part 1 here.

After a long, drunken, sleep-filled drive out to the beach, I was woken up by Charlie my trainer and did the death shuffle off the coach to a lot of excited Japanese people who I greeted with bloodshot eyes and a mouth that felt like an evil, overweight furby (remember them?) had taken up residence there and had an argument with my tongue and left it beaten, swollen, and, of course, covered with fur.

Getting off the coach we waved to the few hundred or so Pride fans who took a few photos before we were ushered off behind a small stage that was set up at the front of a small fenced-off area around the beach front. This was the first meet-the-fans type thing I'd done. Up until a few hours before I didn't even know I had fans to meet. I felt like I was giving them everything I could give them after drinking heavily all night and being dazed and confused from having been woken up. Meanwhile, the sun was beating down and soaking up the last remnants of any remaining moisture my dried, shriveled body was trying desperately to cling on to. Then I was being told I'd be taking part in a bench press and grip-squeezing competition. “Great," I said, with heavy sarcasm that went completely over the head of one of the helpful track-suited Pride runner Borgs. (All the runners wore the same Pride tracksuit, and there seemed to be an infinite number of them--all helpful but devoid of any kind of emotion, hence the “Borg” tag.)

So the Pride music played. We were all introduced. I did my standard banging-of-the-hands, unhinged-meathead-pointing bit. A fan was picked from the crowd. We were given these handheld electronic devices you squeeze and that give you a strength reading and were pitted head to head in a squeezing competition with the fan. I don't know if it was a set up but the skinny 100-pound fan won ... I came in last. Look, I've broken both my hands so many times from punching a vast array of people during my years collecting debts, removing gypsies, and bouncing bars, so my grip’s not the best, but I made up for it by winning the bench press competition, so there!

(And for all the males out there who ask the time-honoured traditional question that's hounded me throughout my whole adult life, "How much do you bench?"--on this occasion it was 180kg … Grrrrrrrrrr.)

After we did the grip/bench press stuff we ate some Chicken satay and sushi and actually met some of the fans. I ended up talking to a Japanese couple. The conversation pretty much consisted of them smiling and laughing at everything I said, which was mostly grunts, and me making mean faces while they touched my biceps. The sun was really beating down now and as I sweated I could physically feel the sun ridding my body of all that alcohol. I decided to get out of the way for a while and sleep a bit more. I retired to an out-of-the-way sun lounger and passed out.

I could sense and feel people around me. With a lot of effort I half-opened an eye and was greeted by the sight of three happy Japanese guys looming over me. This shocked me and I moved quickly to sit up, which applied ample pressure from my Colossal frame to the no-so-colossal frame of the sun lounger, which meant it collapsed, which meant I awkwardly fell onto the floor. It most have looked like a Benny Hill sketch, if Benny Hill took up bodybuilding. This all happened painfully slowly and I could tell from the belly laughter emanating from Charlie my trainer that he was a Benny Hill fan. The Japanese fans snapped into action, rushing to help me back to my feet.

Now on my feet again I tried to regain whatever dignity I had left. As I was making light of what had just happened by signing autographs and doing my standard mean, jokey faces, one of the Japanese fans asked if I would slap him. This is not something I'd heard of before, which probably won't come as much of a surprise to you as I doubt you have either, but it was then explained to me that it was considered an honour in Japan to be slapped by a fighter.

Now, put yourself in my position. I'm not sure how long I was asleep for but I was awoken by three twentysomething Japanese men, one of whom wants to be slapped by me. This wasn't what I had on the cards in terms of a friendly meet-the-fans barbeque. At first I was hesitant, as I didn't want to unknowingly be part of some bizarre sexual slapping ceremony. But as I started to get my head together I figured, “Whatever,” and to be honest the first thing I usually want to do when someone wakes me up is slap them, so why not, right? When in Rome and all that.

But this posed any interesting problem. Considering the jobs I’ve had throughout my life, let’s just say I'm no stranger to slapping people, so you’d think it be easy to slap someone on cue. However, I was a stranger to the art of slapping someone on request.

Not feeling any ill will, I committed the said act of violence upon the fella (at his request), and what I produced was a slap of such magnificent, feeble proportions that I started to question my own masculinity and all-round colossus-ness. So did my three new Japanese’s fans, who all cast a mixture of disappointed and despondent looks at me.

To cover my failure, I shouted, "Practice!" and gestured to my disappointed victim that all was not lost, that I was lining up for another go. When my victim’s friends saw that I wasn't happy with my last slap and that I was going to try again, they got excited again. Determined not to let these strange but friendly fans down, I uncorked a good, solid slap, not heavy enough to cause damage but heavy enough to sting and make a cool sound. Only it didn't make a cool sound--not unless you count a quiet thud as cool. This is because in my haste to reclaim some respect I had caught said “slappie” with the butt of my hand instead of the palm. He dropped to his knees clutching his head as an awful silence descended over the gathering. I thought, “This is going well.” But as I went to see the extent of the injury I’d inflicted on my now half-deaf fan he suddenly jumped up, hugged me, and thanked me over and over. I laughed, he laughed, his friend’s laughed. Who'd have thought a badly placed slap could bring about so much happiness, but there you go.

I quickly said my goodbyes before someone else decided they wanted to get hit and I’d have to re-enact the whole painful ordeal again, like some kind of slaphappy version of Groundhog Day.

Check out part 1.

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And check out James' first story for Fightland:

James "The Colossus" Thompson Takes on the Banks, the Bookies, and Alistair Overeem