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That day in Blackwells was pretty emotional. Ali was touring a book and many of the hardbitten hacks in the British tabloids hadn't seen him for over a decade, not since he was the lippy, skinny, sarky promoter of his own fights, always by far, the wittiest man in the room. In 1992 he looked old, gaunt, grey. Some of the hacks in the front row were even starting to well up as Ali stood there holding his book, shaking and saying nothing. "You're the greatest, champ!" one reporter said as tears rolled down his face. Ali smiled and started fumbling in his tracksuit pocket. He took out a ten pound note, reached across the stage and gave it to the man. Then he winked and said into the microphone "I told him to say that." Everyone laughed. The Champ, brought low by disease and time, still bloody had it.
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I wanted to take the emotion of that little encounter with Ali and do something with it in my writing. I imagined a slightly younger Muhammad Ali coming to Belfast during the Troubles. He never did come to Belfast during the Troubles but I write fiction for a living so it wasn't difficult coming up with a scenario about what might have happened that day. Here's me reading Chapter 1 of Rain Dogs - the complete Muhammad Ali bit... Or if you're not into the whole youtube thing, you can read the entire thing here, too. RIP, Champ.