It's a quick moving sport, but not a short one and there's no missing that as the two mechs trade rapid blows, the timer marking the rounds slowly - slowly - clicking down from three minutes. It's no holds barred in a lot of ways, all sparks and screeching metal on metal, but the strikes take time to gear up. Charlie has slowly shifted to the edge of his seat in the tight aisle, elbows on his knees and his lager clenched in out hand. One blow from the yellow mech is met with a howl - punctuated with a "Come on, you arsehole! Get a swing in!"

He settles back, takes a long swig from his beer and-- and shoots her a sidelong glance, taps her knee with his. "Well? What d'you think?"