TXMMA – Texas Mixed Martial Arts

UFC 40: The Sabrutat Report – Read and Be Entertained





Better late than never, the always-busy Stefan Abrutat (aka Sabrutat from MMA.tv) has submitted his own, classically non-politically-correct account of his experience at UFC 40: Vendetta.ÿ From conquering buffets, to witnessing phenomenal fights, to showing the Otherground how to tear up the town, to making the rounds of every postfight party, Sabrutat gives his account of the UFC 40 experience.ÿ Click Read More to see the unofficial account that you wont see anywhere else.

As Bruce Buffer’s voice first shook the concrete floor of the MGM Grand, I twigged something. He was just as amped as the rest of us – he couldnt hide it from his voice. Id sensed the energy permeating Las Vegas from the moment I arrived, and here we finally were. It was actually going to happen. Shamrock and Ortiz – the grizzled veteran against the cocksure kid – THE ultimate fight.


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For the months before, I just knew something was going to balls the whole thing up. Someone would get injured training, bashed up in a car crash, bitten by a brown recluse or come down with the flu. As the day got closer, slowly my doubt morphed into neutrality, then hope. It finally hit me at the weigh-ins when Shamrock strode menacingly onto the stage, strutting and spitting like a cartoon tomcat. The dark glint in his eye and the chiseled shape he was in sent rippling gasps through the audience. Bookmakers scrambled to re-adjust their odds. Mainstream reporters scribbled wildly. Oh, it’s damn well ON, mate!


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I don’t know if the pyrotechnics were louder or brighter as they scarred the darkness, but they certainly SEEMED to be. Colours were more vibrant, sounds were sharper. Even the beer tasted better from the two cups poised dramatically in my sweating fists.


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“Welcome to the City of Sin, mate!” cackled Leroy, the ebonically-challenged taxi driver ferrying me from the Las Vegas airport to the MGM Grand.


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City of Sin, huh? We’ll soon see about that, me ol’ mucker.


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The warm orange sunrise, leaning against the towering hotels and casinos like a lazy drunk, glanced groggily at the citys early morning commuters and welcomed me with a muted “You’ve been up all night, incha?”


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The hugeness of the event I was to witness 36 hours hence propped my sleep-deprived eyelids open like a triple espresso festival. Tito Vs Ken, Ian Vs Andrei, Matt Vs Gil; folks, it doesnt get any better than this…


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The famous Vegas buffet. And theres me thinking itd be a lot of food for cheapy cheap. Um, nope. its a load of food for expensive. $13 afore tip at the particular casino I was abusing. Outraged, I hit the buffet bar mouth first. By the time they cleared away the mess, Id eaten several pounds of bacon, figuring this to be the highest cost/weight item on the menu.


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Arteries coagulating, I strode defiantly into the media centre to fetch my temporary press pass for the afternoon weigh-ins. While there, I recognized that good-looking bird from The Best Damn Sports Show, Period animatedly discussing something or other with an internet radio host. Having nothing better to do, I grabbed a press junket and seated myself in the foyer to relax my gastro-intestinal infighting.


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While intently reading the contents, I heard the clippity-clop of approaching high heels – at pace. Heroically looking up to assess whatever problem was fueling said damsels furious gait, I was subjected to the sight of TBDSSP birds jubblies bouncing like set-shy jello mounds on an earthquake gimbal. Shed stepped out for a soda and was hurrying back to the show she was co-presenting.


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Eye contact was made as my gaze flicked up from her brawling boobs. She self-consciously slowed to a less-animated trot as she traversed my field of view. Crap. I ducked back to my reading, and subsequently heard her accelerate to full high-heel sprint once shed passed me. Cute arse, too. Nice to know I can still stop `em with a glance.


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The weigh-ins were a trip. Aside from the Tito/Ken shenanigans, I got talking to a couple of Brit lads that came over with Mark Weir. I was surprised to learn Mark has no formal grappling training. I was even more surprised when I saw his grappling during the fight with Phillip Miller. If that aint talent, I dont know what is. Miller won, but damn.


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I wandered into the rules meeting as if I was supposed to be there, and sat with Ian Freeman, Babalu, Marco Ruas, Pedro Rizzo and several other notables whose names escape me. One big lad, who Ive seen fight in King of the Cage, started taking the piss out of me. Can you believe it? Enlisting Ian as emergency violence backup, I quickly countered his “if British food is so good, why do you have McDonalds in London?” with a “to feed you bloody tourists.”


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Immediately following the rules meeting, I bumped into Underground brother HA-Y-N, similarly en route to the official mma.tv get-together. We mentally prepared ourselves for the encounter with the inevitable freaks, buggers, bastards, delinquents, bombastic morons and opinionated lunatics that populate our fine forum. Strangely, they were all cool, interesting folks. It was truly like meeting old friends. After our late lunch (or, in my and HA-Y-Ns case, late liquid lunch) we dispersed to our own devices until the planned piss-up that evening.


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I taxied to the hotel with a 12-pack livener, and said hello to Tune and the bed-bound Erickson. Food poisoning had laid him low, so there was no way he would make it out on the blather than night. Full of feigned concern, I drank most of the twelver and watched TV before heading out to meet the Underground crew.


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The search for cheap booze on the strip was a fretful one. After hitting a few scandalously overpriced pubs, we headed downtown to the more inexpensive locations. Stumbling across a small bar in a casino peddling frozen drinks (I know) at $1 a pop, the consensus was wed found our Eden. Now, it appears, was the time to test my legendary Yorkshire fortitude. The frozen drinks lined up in front of me thick and fast, under the condition that I down each in one.


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Now these were drinks Ive never tried guzzling afore. Sure, they were only 12oz cups, but it is ice. After the 5th in 5 minutes I was starting to struggle. As I valiantly tried to impress those around me, my stomach began violently questioning my recent dietary habits as my skull was slowly crushed between the jaws of a frozen vice. By a strange quirk of fate, the bar we were in turned out to be in my hotel, so I said my goodnights and headed upstairs to bang out a few zees.


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The next day saw the txmma.com staff checking out the arena. Things were a lot busier today. A breakfast of bacon and bacon was provided by the UFC Tapout 2 game people. We watched Ken warm up in the octagon, and I chit-chatted with all the folks I havent seen since UFC37. After seeing to press pass business, Erickson headed back to the hotel to squirt some more out of both ends, and I went to Gameworks for a couple of pints before the event. A couple turned into five, but I didnt pay for any. Make friends with your bartender, folks. its the only way to fly.


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Back in the arena I mingled with the Jim Genias and Loretta Hunts of the world before the event, which kicked off with the most electrifying opening Ive ever witnessed. The anticipation was almost tangible, and Bruce Buffer was on fire. We all know what happened during the show, so I wont bore you with the details, save I had half the domestic press ready to apply for British citizenship by the time Ian “The Machine” Freeman entered the octagon.


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After breezing through the press conference I headed to the mma.tv meet. There was much to discuss – 4 after-fight parties were being thrown, and we had to decide which one to attend. The choices were the official UFC one, Phil Baronis, Frank Shamrocks, and Tito Ortizs. Several lessons were learned that night by Frazor, PERKDOG and I.


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ÿFirstly, dont wear shorts to nightclubs in Las Vegas. They dont appear to realize theyre in the middle of a bloody desert. I had to borrow a pair of Frazors 1975-style jeans. No wonder I didnt pull.


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ÿSecondly, dont try to attend more than one party in one night. We went to three, and they were all crap, even the one where we did a little boozing with BJ Penn. Heres my tip for next time – attend the nearest party to the event, and stay there. Itll save on taxi-fares and shoe-leather. Ill be at the bar. Buy me a drink.


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Thirdly, bring PERKDOG along if you want to get in for free. This is not because hes famous, but because he has the uncanny knack of looking like he should be.


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Brekkie was held at a much cheaper buffet than Id previously attended. This didnt sway my bacon rampage, however, and I guzzled down three heaping platefuls. The rest of the day was spent wandering around Vegas in an anti-climactic mood.


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Horror of horrors – there was a queue outside the WFA after-fight party that night. im not a big one for standing in line, and neither, it seemed, are any of the Underground brood. So we ambled over to a nearby bar and held our own riotous impromptu piss-up.ÿ As the party was breaking up, PERKDOG and Frazor arrived and whisked both me and Ironyuppie into the WFA bash.


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I was introduced to a very drunk Frank Trigg, who had just fought in the WFA that evening. I wasnt really paying attention, so I said “Frank who?” I got a closer look at his mush through the nightclub gloom, and finally recognized him “Oh, Frank Trigg. Nice to meet you” and shook his hand. Frank seemed to take offence at not being immediately recognized, and started applying a fingerlock. I stepped back and jerked my hand away – he kept hold with one hand and was pulled off balance. I almost went for the kimura, almost – it was right there, looking at me like a lost puppy. However, the speed at which I calculated the consequences was amazing. He let me go and nothing more was said.


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After a little drinking and gambling, PERKDOG and Frazor had to catch their flight, which left Ironyuppie and I to cruise the birds. We got talking to a couple at the bar, and seemed to be doing famously, if having ones testicles tickled is any indication. As time went along, we decided they were prostitutes. Outraged, we headed for the topless bar. We were both howling drunk by this point, yet we still managed to elicit an early morning beer special from La Cosa Nostra, I mean, the management.


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The sunrise that greeted my emergence from that dingy den of harlots reminded me of the one that heralded my arrival in Vegas, except this one painted the streets before me with different anticipations and expectations -specifically, another bacon breakfast, a long flight home and a week on the toilet.


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Cheers



Stef






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