Still Smokin’ will be like an adults only version of Pat Sharpes fun house. A whole lotta fun, prizes tae be won, its ICWs new crazy show, where anything goes! (cept instead of prizes, its belts, and this intro falls on its arse if yer not a child of the 90s) I spose I thought that analogy works cause Fun House is fairly choatic n that, and ICW is along the same lines, I dunno, I didnae really think this through, but aye! card’s armed tae the teeth, there’s gonnae be technical wrestling, wrestling where ladders are used as devices of destruction and probably some wrestling that isnae on the originally scheduled card. Basically if yer intae wrestling, ye’ll be intae this, cause its wrestling from top tae bottom so it is. Did I mention wrestling aye? Aye good.
There isnae any way back fae rippin the arse oot yer jeans is there? I don’t mean this specifically tae any incident either, I mean in life, if ye rip the arae oot yer jeans in any scenario…that’s you. That’s how folk will define ye for years tae come. “Oh is that yer 5th Nobel peace Prize in a row Stevie aye? mind that time ye fell ootside Sub Club n tore the arse right oot yer Levis but?” “Oh so ye saved 15 weans fae a block of flats that wur burning doon did ye Agnes? no very gid at keepin the arse in yer jeas but urr ye?” Its just a life lesson. A hard one, but ultimately fair.
As I dug my spoon into my fourth Muller Crunch Corner of the evening, shirtless…crying in the mirror. I glanced down at what remained and asked the yoghurty crunchy goodness if it would do me a favour.
“Baby….dont hurt me”
It had been a bad day. They come and go when you’re on your own. Sometimes the freedom is great. Other times the soul crushing loneliness leads you to a point where all you can think about is eating snack foods in the mirror. Looking at the disgrace that is your existence. This was one time too many though. I blacked out, and came to 3 hours later, beard aw caked in yoghurt. Chin tucked to into my chest like I had an off switch on my back, someone had pressed it and I shut down like a computer. This had to be the last time. There had to be better way. Not only did I need someone to love me, I needed a shirt. I needed a chance to kill these two birds with one stone. Or one tweet to be more specific. So I took to Twitter. I thought “why not start at the very top and work our way down?” so I went to my dream woman. The technical wrestling goddess known as Natalya Neidhart. I offered her a proposition.
“WE GOT US SOME ANNOUNCEMENTS JACK!”
“It’s Martin…ma name’s Martin”
“Alright brother, we got us a memorial rope trophy royal brother. 30 humans enter a bull pen, and the last man standing turns into Andre The Giant brother, yeah brother Jack”
“Whit you even on aboot?
“I dunno, I blacked out about 10 year ago and everything since has been confusion Jack!”
“Many times dae I huv tae tell ye, ma name’s Martin”
“Yeah brother. Like I told that chick I slayed in that porno movie I was in, if you not Jackin, then you aint my brother Jack! Brother Jack Jack brother, Hulkamaniacs”
“Mate you’re away wae it”
If ye want eh. Nae pressure, but if it’s in ye, then be something else. If it’s in yer heart, and ye wake up every morning knowing that the only way tae achieve true contentment is tae dae that thing that a burning passion for exists inside yer fuckin soul, then dae that thing. Dae it tae yer hauns don’t look like hauns anymore. Dae it tae feet swell up tae twice their normal size (in fact…don’t dae that…thats probably not healthy, and it’s a fine way tae burst a pair of slippers) Dae it tae people get sick of ye tellin them about it, and when they get sick of it? dae it a few times more. Be who you are. Don’t let anyone marginalise and belittle you for having dreams. Even if those dreams urnae entirely based in reality.
Everyone loves an ICW Sunday eh. That sense of anticipation from the moment ye wake up. The license ye feel ye have tae pour a hauf at 9 in the morning. A temporary quencher for that yer unwavering thirst, but it’s no a thirst for further haufs (even though they will most likely be consumed over the course of the evening, if thats yer thing) it’s a thirst tae see a variety of, highly skilled, decidedly sweaty men, knock 11 shades of shite out each other. Orchestrated violence right on yer doorstep. Some of the best storytellers in the country gien ye yer fix for 12 quid a month. Old Firm derby type anticipation, except ye dont hate anycunt in the crowd cause they’re shirt is blue or green. The only wans ye really hate are the few wae howlin BO.