Notes & Queries response - How different are modern humans from the first Homo sapiens?

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George Klynman was a casual acquaintance of mine over what was roughly a two-year period. I assume that our unlikely crossing of paths was the result of our names having found their way onto one of those off-the-peg guest lists that do the rounds among PR firms. For a while, we seemed to be continually bumping into each other at social functions. He is a tall man – I believe 6ft4 – and well-built; not an easy person to miss in a crowd. He is gregarious to boot. Though I liked him a lot, I came to dread his intimidating, wall-like smile broadcasting his recognition from across the room, followed by the raised glass of fizz and the over-friendly cry of “alright there Redders,” which I did not appreciate. This would be followed by a restrained slap across the shoulders that, despite his efforts to rein-in his strength, I always had to brace for, to avoid being knocked over. The repeated experience has left me with a greatly enhanced respect for anyone who has absorbed the full force of one of his punches. Eventually either one, or both of us, must have fallen out as favour with whoever draws up the lists for these events, and we fell out of touch. I think I read somewhere that he lives in Spain now.

We first met almost three decades ago, at a spa [sparring] day, in London. The private gym, where the event was held, was located along a crooked one-way street called Down Drover Hill, that ascends from Smithfield Meat Market and eventually joins Newgate Street. Only a few months before, the premises had been occupied by the large, kidney-shaped dining room of Cyane – a restaurant that I would often frequent with clients, as I worked in offices nearby and it had a good reputation. For nine years, the head chef and restaurant owner, Eric Deluca, served a very superior ragù, though one of my dining companions found the presence of fennel seeds an overpowering distraction. Both the gym and the building that contained it are gone now. Only the street-facing facade remains.

Very few of the guests in attendance at the aforementioned 'spa' day displayed any interest in boxing. I imagine there were a good number in attendance who found the sport vulgar or disagreeable, but who also couldn't pass on the opportunity of a free lunch. Those who were sufficiently inquisitive to venture beyond the orbiting silver platters of canapés in the grand lobby, and into the gym proper, bore witness to a succession of three-round bouts. The graceful curvature of Cyane's artificial walls had been removed and the room restored to its original L-shape. An attempt was underway to remove the matt-white plasterwork, exposing bare red brick, the colour of raw steak.

Klynman, at the time, was an up and comer, and fairly low down on the fight card. I forget the name of his opponent. The main event was a five-round exhibition match between Arthur Rashid and James King. Rashid was scheduled to face-off against Wal Soley a few months hence, in a long-awaited showdown. My employers – The Unified Wells and Aquifers Company – were one of the sponsors for the upcoming fight. The hastily put-together champagne reception, with its abundant lobster vol-au-vents, and ancillary boxing spectacle was aimed at laying to rest rumours regarding the condition of Rashid, who had been photographed by the paparazzi leaning against a wall mid-jog, breathless and seemingly out of shape. To my admittedly untrained eye, he appeared a little doughy around the midriff, but held himself up well. His trainer, Bill Warby, told me “he's got a strange body and his metabolisms a bit ginger as well. More than most, he has to watch what he eats and when he eats it. Above a certain weight he always looks he's been gulping down the pies, but his core is solid. He puts in the work.”

After the fights, the boxers were paid in cash and hustled out through a back exit. Klynman, bucking the trend, emerged from the changing rooms wearing a grey Savile Row suit and a brand new pink shirt with the top button undone. He exchanged the cellophane and cardboard remnants of the packaging with the man who handed him his payment, then strode into the hospitality section, where he was an immediate hit.

Despite being in his early 20s, flecks of grey were already showing in his temples. He claimed this was the legacy of a motorcycle accident. At the age of 17, he had ridden his bike into the side of a tractor that had emerged from a field gate onto a narrow country lane. The injuries he sustained were so severe that the lower part of his face had to be rebuilt. The reconstruction perhaps accounts for his very expansive cheeks, like castle walls. You would think that this would play to his disadvantage in a boxing ring, presenting an opponent with a very easy target. Those who have fought him will beg to differ. Etienne Brooksbank, who fractured a knuckle through a pair of boxing gloves, after striking Klynman in the side of his face, said it was like punching a steel door.

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The secret of Klynman's robust jaw lies buried in the archaeology of his false teeth – a gift from his father, on his eighteenth birthday. They are fashioned from the bones of one of our earliest human ancestors. His great grandfather purchased the skeleton at a bazaar, in Syria, during the First World War. He was unaware of its significance and regarded it as a curiosity. On his return home, he noted the remains had a pleasing density and weight about them. He repurposed some of the arm bones as handles for his gardening tools. The family had been plundering the skeleton ever since, mostly grafting slivers of bone onto wobbly chair or table legs to restore balance.

“It wasn't until my dad came up with the idea, that any of us thought about using the skeleton for spare parts,” said Klynman. “After he was done with my teeth, we put our heads together and began thinking about what else I could change out. So far I've had both hips replaced. Both knees. All the knuckles joints on my south martini (Klynman is a southpaw). I'll be doing the same for right.”

I remarked on how strange it was that, while medicine leans in the direction of modern materials when it comes to replacing worn-out joints, he had chosen to journey deep into the history of our species.

“That's just a supply issue though innit,” he said, pointing off to one side with an enormous finger. “You know how old screws and bolts from a hundred years ago have solidity and weight to them. They were made to last several lifetimes. The ones you buy nowadays in the DIY shop are brittle and lightweight. It's the same thing with the evolving human body. Our ancestors were built for physical activity. It stands to reason their bones are going to be stronger. I am merging my body with the body of one of my distant forefathers, with the end goal of building a better fighter.”

“I assume this doesn't happen on the NHS,” I said.

“Private clinic. South America. I won't go into anymore detail than that. My teeth are still the biggest marvel: They make me chew food differently, in a way that extracts more nutrients. One of the side-effects is that my brain is bigger than the average size.”

I asked him whether anyone from the scientific community had approached him regarding the skeleton, given it's uniqueness.

“Oh, don't start me on that,” he said. “Even since I was stupid enough to mention it, there's been the threat of court action if we don't hand over what's left of it. Where is it? In a very safe place. I'll give you a clue: It's not in the UK.”

“Intelligent people in positions of authority can be very vindictive and inhumane.”

He nodded.

“They said something that upset my dad the other day. Some professor at Cambridge claimed that, after I die in the ring – those were his exact words – they're going to lay claim to my skeleton, so the older parts can be studied and displayed in a museum. I've made arrangements to be cremated quickly, before the lawyers can get their hooks in.”

He inserted a large piece of steak into his mouth. I watched the bulging of his jaw muscles as he chewed on it, with his lips pressed together.

I hope this is of help.

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~

This is my response to a question that appeared on the Notes & Queries page of The Guardian website on the 25^th June, 2023.

The Guardian is apparently no longer happy to host my comments on their site, so it is appearing here instead.

This blog is obviously not affiliated with The Guardian. Its reference to a question that appeared in Notes & Queries is presented here under the terms of fair use.