Sahara was so independent rejecting all approaches, knowing full well, they were just after her body.
Her local, The Lamb to the Slaughter, was delighted and increased her sponsorship, in fact they asked if she wanted to box that very evening at the Rose and Crown over the street.
It doesn't take long to get a licence to box in a public house, nor it seems, to land your first fight.
Downing a pint nearby, I overheard the manager say to Sahara.
' Our girl's called off and the fight's at your weight, ' he explained, ' Just doin them a favour, and you maybe? ' he pleaded.
Sahara looked doubtful. ' £50 quid bonus if you take the fight, ' he offered, knowing the rematch would benefit him.
Her bruises from her fight against Portia had not quite healed, so I was surprised when she accepted the fight.
The fight arena at the Rose and Crown was in the big cellar. An open-ended tiny box-room, 7 feet square at one end of the cellar, no room to manoeuvre.
Not Sahara's favourite venue because she liked a bit of room to move around.
She reminded me she'd had a fist fight one night with another woman there after an argument in the pub, so boxing in the tiny area shouldn't be a problem for her, against her own weight.
Could I ever forget? ( No, I'm not a stalker! ) She'd had a casual meeting with Lacey's pal, Kitkat, and had an argument over whether Sahara could beat Lacey ( Lacey hadn't yet arrived at the pub) in a street fight.
A couple of drinks later both were still at it, revved up over insults and they started pushing each other. Separated by the manager, the girls were determined to have it out. I did get some pics.
The manager closed the pub and all the patrons trooped down to the cellar where Sahara stripped to topless ( she does tend to take the breath away ).
More modest, Kitkat wouldn't go quite so far:
though not perfect, that was ok by me because both are dishy: you wouldn't have said that after the fight!
You would not believe it, unless it had been scripted, with hardly any room to swing a cat; a throwback to the fist fights of yesteryear, the two girls circled closely, slowly, short-punching each other, carefully seeking a target, deflecting where they could.
No panic and completely in control, heads swaying, they just wanted to maximise through focus, punishment, via the fists, to the finish. The silence deafening, other than the occasional small fist smacking into body-flesh or the face.
I couldn't determine whether they were intoxicated or just determined not to lose face, though the face was pretty much losing on both girls.
The firm bellies took the slugs easily, early on. Targeting the soft parts of the face, very soon the cuts and bruises began to appear, the punches never full force because there was no room for hay-makers but they were still slugging there, after two long minutes.
Forgiven the occasional clinch, which I have to admit, was a very sexy, intimate moment of relief from this calculated, destructive fight, so they didn't really get a breather, locked close together, they punched anywhere.
Heads over each other's shoulder, taking deep breaths, facing her opponents neck to prevent the face hit but continuing to punch the side of each other's body; sometimes the fist smacking into the ribs or landing on the soft flesh of the breast.
Low hits to their taut bellies; seen to sense when a belly hit was coming, the slightest separation: because they were so close, some punches were landing too close to the crotch area, providing a violent yet sexy view of a close encounter of a different kind, between two determined women.
The crowd, utterly silent, were transfixed, not believing what they were seeing.
They couldn't have been more than a foot apart, Sahara looking for a clinch, when the nine-inch punch from Kitkat, driven upwards, hit Sahara high in the solar plexus; it caught Sahara off-guard because she doubled over, winded, and a full-blown right cross caught her just under the ear, toppling her to the concrete floor.
A couple of squeals rent the hot, still, silent air - a couple of Sahara's pals, no doubt.
The smirk on Kitkat's bruised face was replaced by disappointment when Sahara raised herself and the slugging started up again.
Both girls fists were suffering but there was no giving in, now slapping each other's face but Sahara's experience in grasping the hair and slapping, began to wear Kitkat down.
The hard knee to the tired belly in the fourth minute was the cruncher that downed Kitkat, she could not go on after that and signalled her surrender. The crowd gave both a standing ovation.
Sahara's stamina, again.
They had suffered contusions and bleeding cuts and their plans to go dancing later that evening were abandoned.
To be honest I couldn't have asked either to dance looking like they did. On second thoughts, of course I would.
Lacey had turned up in the middle of the fight, later consoling Kitkat and I heard she'd threatened Sahara with a hiding for beating her pal.
I thought, ' I bet Sahara replied, " You want some of me now, Bitch?"
Sahara told me later I wasn't far wrong.
Back to the boxing.
Plenty folks had arrived to see the fight and Sahara was on first,
against a mature lady called Jasmine, who boasted a delightful, truly well cared for figure, possibly even a few ounces lighter than Sahara.
Sahara met her opponent in the dressing cubby hole, where, no doubt, they sized each other up.
I handed in the four ounce gloves and mouth guards and asked for a photograph and a statement of intent.
Jasmine looked at the gloves " What the!.... These are tiny "
Sahara laughed and put her hand to her ear " Was that a chicken noise. "
As they were both naked, the pic was refused, not very politely, but Jasmin fixed Sahara with a cold, hard stare ( click, got me pic - head-shot only ) and snarled ' I'm gonna kick.... your... ass.' The atmosphere was juicy.
" Sahara? " I enquired.
" She's definitely not in my league. She should join the waaayyyy tuck tuck league" she responded.
Good quotes for the bulletin write-up.