When Connie met Paul London.
Connie fae Kemlin “Is this it? OH MY GOT MAR-TIN…”
Simon Cassidy “The following contest is scheduled for one fall and is for the ICW..
Connie “OH MY GO MAR-TIN IS THIS PAUL LONDON??”
Simo “Zero-G Championship….”
Connie “Aw thats a shame…KENNY IS THE BOLLOCKS! KENNY IS THE BOLLOCKS! NAH NAH NAH”
Every match till the man himself emerged, Connie turned tae me with a look of “I just shat my pants” in anticipation. Is this him? Whit if its him? It might be him. It could be him. Aw its no him? Maybe next time then. Maybe it’ll be him next time eh. Aye…theres always next time. Johnny Moss was being too rough wae Divers tae. He was tae leave Divers alone so he was, except anytime Divers came out the ring for a wee rest and tae maybe shite his pants he was met with “GET BACK IN THERE DIVERS YA SHITEBAG” Apparently Johnny Moss’ role in this was tae get in that ring and gie Divers lots of cuddles. The problem there is when Mossy cuddles folk, it tends to be the pre cursor tae a belly to belly suplex. Mossy flung Divers about like wet washin. Then yer Jack Gallagher came out and done some beautiful things wae Darkside. The chat was flowing between Connie n Jack. Something about him tucking his baws behind Darksides ear like a workie does wae his wee pencil. Jack assured her such shenanigans would be going down after the show. Then it happened.
“The following contest is scheduled for ONE FALL! and is for the ICW Tag Team Championships!”
“OH MY GOD MARTAN, OH MY GOD ITS PAUL LANDAN, OH MY GOD!!”
All of a sudden I found myself gettin double punched in the shoulder. Debilitated I had nae way to block the snapmare, dropkick tae the back of the dome. She hoisted herself up ontae the stage next and used Billy Kirkwoods glorious flowing hairdo as a makeshift trampoline tae elbow drop me. All in the name of Paul London. Fuckin lost her shit and turned intae Tajiri or suhin. Spittin green mist in everycunts faces and quietly muttering “Paul…..London” intae their ears. Then the match started. Aw fuck. Theres still a match tae go. And Paul London will wrestle Tommy End and Michael Dante. A couple of big dudes who do not fuck about. I seen Tommy End kick someone in the face so hard the guy regressed to his 12 year old self and began feeling the side effects to the acne medicine he was on back then. It was a fuckin nightmare. How do I know this? Cause I was that guy. He kicked me. It was harrowing. Then Dante speared my spleen clean oot. Dangerous boays. Paul was in danger here. And Connie was in danger of turning intae a puddle tears, pish, shite and whitever she puts on her coupon tae make it yon ghosty way. Flour or suhin.
“He better no fuckin touch Paul London Mart-an, I’m tellin ye, I’ll fuckin get in there!”
“Aye but…its a wrestling match….he kinda needs tae hit…I mean aye…..totally agree…YOU LEAVE HIM ALANE TOMMY YA DIRTY BIG BASTARD”
“Exactly..how DARE he!”
He dared though. Paul London got kicked in the face quite a lot. The match was lovely so it wis. I’ve never seen anyone so invested in anything. A wee tear ran doon her cheek as he gave her a cuddle on his way to the ring. A lot of tears came oot when they eventually won. It was lovely and nice. Wrestling is about emotions. Without them its a squad of cunts wae neckbeards, dissecting John Cenas moveset and making up shite nicknames for cunts they don’t like. Fuck they cunts. Come tae a show and suspend yer disbelief eh. Its muuuuuch better that way. It makes things like idolisation possible. Its makes moments like Connie meeting Paul London and him handing her a t-shirt MATTER. Cause she loves the cunt, and that’s a lovely thing. I was away buying Jack Gallaghers t-shirt when they spoke, but I imagine this is how it went down.
PL : “Nice to see you again!”
CW: “OH MY GOD, YOUR PAUL LONDON! HERE….HAVE THESE SWEETIES, I’VE BROUGHT HUNNNNNNERS”
PL: “Oooooh, I cant have gluten I’m afraid….are they gluten free?”
CW: “NO! but they will be”
*Connie pulls out a syringe and sooks the gluten out of each and every sweetie, before emptying the gluten intae a tub and shouting ‘SEE YOU GLUTEN! HOW DARE YOU HURT PAUL LONDON YA COW! I FUCKIN HATE GLUTEN’ at that tub*
Paul scranned the now gluten free treats, and snuck off for a minute to scoop up a t-shirt. Rolled up like a baton. A baton of happiness. A baton that turned a sad face intae a happy wan. Just a blue t-shirt wae some writing on it. Cherished. Because of passion. Because of love for the cunts craft. A magic thing.
That was when Connie met Paul London for the second time. A largely true story, wae some fiction peppered in for funsies. A tale of undying appreciation. A tale of being able tae go to a show and allow yourself to be sucked in to it ALL. An admirable trait. A lovely thing. Wrestling.