In the underground venue HERE, in London’s West End, Dmitry Bivol is hunched forward on a sofa. Dictaphones are jabbed towards a stoic face illuminated by a bright white studio light. He clasps his calloused hands, one thumbnail sporting a dark bruise. Barely 10 metres away, a topless Artur Beterbiev shadow-boxes in front of a green screen. It is a surreal scene.
Beterbiev is soon gone, while Bivol stays to answer questions. His answers are thoughtful yet mostly directed at the ground, his gaze barely straying above the semi-circle of audio recorders in front of him. Bivol’s English is not as dynamic as his boxing, but it is good; he just happens to be a man of few words. Thankfully, from our perspective, he is a man of more words than Beterbiev, his similarly part-Russian rival.
