ICW – Ringo’s Despair Review (Birmingham)

dmdm

Usually the intro to a show away fae Glesga is about setting the scene. Making the reader feel like they’re actually in that place with ye, by making up a bunch of shite and playing on local stereotypes for a giggle. ICW in Birmingham was a wee bit different though. For a start, it was in Birmingham, and I know fuck all about Birmingham other than the fitbaw teams in contains, and the fact that it shat out Frank Skinner. If there are local customs, I don’t have a fuckin clue, so I’m no setting the scene with stupit Birmingham patter, because it was the final night of the Magical Mystery Tour and ICW turned the 02 Academy in Birmingham intae fuckin FIGHT CLUB. Which seems more pertinent than mocking any local landmarks, or the fact that everyone sounds like eeyore fae Winnie The Pooh.

When I say Fight Club, I’m no talking about Kid Fite and Liam Thomson getting the old band back together either. Liam’s ditched the singlet for good, pledging allegiance to the flag of wearing biker shorts and backcrackering everycunt on the planet. I mean the atmosphere was like an underground fight club. Every match felt like it meant something. Every chant bouncing off the walls, and combining with other airborne chants to create an endless intimidating drone, and if you listened carefully, it sounded like a bear beating its chest, just awoken from hibernation, chanting “baaaastard…baaaastard” demonically as it stares down its foe.

Make no mistake, Damo vs Dave Mastiff was one of the more unique matches announced for this tour on paper, and in practice it exceeded expectations so much, it got the first ever “punty” ovation. Thats when folk want to give something a standing ovation, but they’re already standing, so everyone gives each other puntys to be standing a weeeee bit taller. Tall enough to applaud for the incredible physical feats those two massive units accomplished. The home crowd were possessed by the bastard from the black country. A wee pocket of ICW regulars wae questionable teeth going apeshit for the ever imposing, deceptively agile figure of big Damo. It had everything you could possibly want in a wrestling match and to be honest wae yees, if it wasnt for all the other good shit on the card, I’d probably just dedicate the whole post to the brilliance they gave the Birmingham crowd. There was plenty of other good shit though. Too much. It started with a heroes lament. As Joe Hendry came out with tears in his eyes. Joe Hendray…global greeter.

Joe Hendry vs Stevie Boy

Joe Hendry was in Birmingham, even though he wasn’t technically on the card. Joe Hendry was in Birmingham, in his special wrestling pants, without someone doing any wrestling with him. Joe Hendry was not fucking happy about this. If you were Joe Hendry, and the circumstances detailed above were happening to YOU, would you be happy? Course ye fuckin widnae. Joe Hendry was put on this planet to make things better, and there’s still so much to do, so why the FUCK was Joe Hendry not on this card, making things better, for I-C-Double me and YOU?!

Nae explanation for it really is there? When its broken down intae cold, hard facts, it makes nae sense. Rectify it quick. Have Joe issue an open challenge, after he quite brilliantly projects his pain to us by sinking to the mat, and beating it like it owed him dig money. Come at the global hero if ye think yer mental enough!

Suddenly, A WILD STEVIE BOY appears, stalking his prey, with a 2L in wan haun, whilst the other clutches a hauf bottle of Bucky. Thats not to say Stevie takes a laidback attitude to his wrestling endeavours though. Far from it. These liquids are simply his fuel. Like Usain Bolt fuels his pure fastness wae triple strength mountain dew wae a tenner eccie dropped in it. If Stevie wis popeye, a gram and a hauf pizza supper would be his spinach. Enough of this tomfoolery though. Theres wrestling to describe!

The forearms and the standing shooting star press, its pure poetry fae Stevie. When he lands that fucker it looks like someone dropped him out of a plane, mid flip, but then fuck knows what he’d be doing flipping on a plane at all. That’s surely got tae break some sort of law. The Joe Hendry vertical suplex show started after that, before a dazzling dunt of European Uppercuts, was followed by Joe catching Stevie coming off the ropes with a huge HADOUKEN slap tae the chest. Dazed and confused, Stevie kicked in to full on survival mode. Enziguri…missile dropkick, springboard SCUD tae the jaw, but in amongst the frantic Stevie Boy barrage Joe floored the momentum with the DDT. My favourite Joe Hendry move that is. He hits a DDT in a very emphatic, Jake Roberts way. No as good as Jake right enough, but it looks like it could put people away, and with the DDT becoming a bit run of the mill, unless ye slap a futureshock on that shit, him making it look so impressive takes some doing, but what he couldnae do is handle the sleekitness. You can cut about, planting skulls on mats as much as ye like, but when you leave Stevie Boy a wee opening mid Fallaway Slam, he’s gonnae roll ye up for the 1,2,3, and he done just that. Stevie Boy’s hot streak continues. He might have failed to prize the belt from the bollocks, but if ye keeps kicking folk in the back of the heid and winning matches like this, he’ll stay in the hunt. Lawd knows Kenny vs Stevie is a match ye could watch over and over again. Like a flippy, trippy living poem. Lets dae it again soon.

Paul London and Brian Kendrick (c) vs The New Age Kliq (ICW Tag Team Title Match)

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Haud the fuckin bus a minute. This? Right now? Nah. I’m no ready. I wisnae ready personally, and I certainly wisnae ready for the translucent goth standing beside me tae once again batter fuck out my shoulders upon hearing the name “Paul London” but here it was. The rematch to the Newcastle main event which set the tone for the carnage that would unfold for the remainder of the tour. The ultimate tone setter now had the challenge of reaching the ridiculously high bar they had already set. The gift and the curse eh.

The NAK were unusually bereft of a Divers in Newcastle. They rectified that by stoating out with Divers in tow, and the worst of intentions. Renfrew brandishing a chair with his shitlist on it. Tommy End and Michael Dante have already been crossed off. Forsaken for their sins. Murdered on the dancefloor in Leeds. Paul London and Brain Kendricks names were yet to be crossed off though. Their collective groove still strong amongst the hate, and impending NAK massacre. The NAK wanted the straps back. This wasn’t optional. It was happening. They were either taking the belts back, or painting Birmingham a blinding shade or red. Blood or belts…blood or belts…make yer decision.

Jabs for days, everyone jabbing everyone, in the ring, outside it, in the crowd, backstage. For a beautiful 30 second period everyone in Birmingham was jabbing the closest human to them. Fathers were jabbing their newborn children, wives were landing one flush on the jaw of their postman (fuck knows why anycunt wid be anywhere near their postman at hauf 8 on a Sunday right enough) Cinema goers were jabbing the fat cunt next tae them scranning peanut M n M’s by the handful. Motherfuckers were losing it. Renfrew broke the party up with a sick lariat, dubbed Greetings from Silent Hill, and we were in amongst a wrestling match. Snapmare intae the dropkick, intae the missile dropkick, intae ALL the fuckin chops. BT Gunn for me has been the MVP of this tour. Don’t gie a fuck if you don’t respond well to Americanisms BROTHERRRR. Its true. The level of performance and passion he’s brought to every match has been a fuckin joy to watch, and there was an extra viciousness about him here, as he delivered a sickening kick aff the apron, and with that a near deafening noise rung round the place, like yer man had just kicked a gong, or Ricky Burns’ jaw.

Our Spanky had taken quite the kicking, so a Paul London HOT TAG was right round the corner eh. Of course it was. Double dropkick, followed by an atomic drop had the kliq reeling, before a hurricanrana and a low dropkick had London burning. THAT MAN IS ON FIYAH. The towering inferno morphed intae deidness when BT Gunns knee connected with his jaw, and he stomped all over his neck while Paul London called out for some palefaced daftie staunin far too close to me for comfort. She cannae help ye mate, too busy greeting intae a 12 quid Southern Comfort n Lemonade gently calling out yer name and chatting about how yer white pants in Leeds made you look fuckin angelic (which he kinda did tbf). The doing continued, but London and Kendrick gained the upper hand, and thats when the ring was hit with the unspoken enemy. The man behind the face. Dickie fuckin Divers. A 3 on 2 beatdown ensued, and it looked like it might be lights out for Londrick. A pair of lives lived in such a brilliant, adventurous fashion shouldnae be ended by a lynch mob though. Paul London and Brian Kendrick weren’t put on this earth to die with steel chairs embedded into their heids, so the East End Licensee came to the rescue. Marginally less hairy than Sha Samuels, but every bit as fuckin scary…WOLFGANG. Impromptu 6 man tag aye? Aye sound.

Wolfgang, Paul London and Brian Kendrick vs The NAK 

Wolfgang came out the gate, swinging for the fences, or some other fuckin sporting cliche. I dunno mate. I don’t deal in such garbage. The point is, yer man was striking his enemies with great force. Particularly aiming large doses of his force at BT Gunns face. Hit the Slamdunk anaw, before some superkicks occurred. Everyone bar Renfrew and Wolfgang hit one I believe, but it was 4 days ago, so if I’m recalling that wrong, thats life. I don’t get paid to be accurate, I get paid…well, I don’t get paid at all, but ye know whit I fuckin mean. A Wolfgang assisted Sliced Bread was followed up by a Swanton from Wolfie himself, and the American boaysies, plus their canine hauners had prevailed. Canine hauners is referring to Wolfgang being a Wolf btw. In case that wasn’t clear. He was the canine hauners. Its clever patter, but it kinda loses its cleverness if I have to explain it to ye know whit I mean? Smarten up. Londrick proceed to Fear and Loathing with a shiny belt each, and their heads in tact. Birmingham was fast emerging as the protector of all things good and pure. Although it was more to do with Wolfgangs input than anything else, but listen, don’t let that detract from kid on mythology I’m trying to weave intae the narrative here. Its best just tae turn yer brain aff and let it seep in. Oh aye…more wrestling. GREAT NEWS.

Noam Dar vs Liam Thomson

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Oh Noam. You are decidedly cheeky these days san. Good tae see that streak back in him, because aside from being better than pretty much everycunt at wrestling, it was that patter that set him apart. That funny wee cunt, who’d kick yer front teeth out as fast as you could say “not all Jews are lawyers!” but its fine, cause his dug is cool as fuck, and in wrestling terms, and life terms, that’s all that ever matters really. He urged the Birmingham crowd to get RIGHT on Liam Thomsons back, and they obliged. It was strangely intriguing tae see a crowd full of Brummies so intae a match between a guy fae Ayrshire and a guy fae Edinburgh, and it was yet another testament to how much the Birmingham crowd got right fuckin intae it. Leave yer inhibitions at the door, and leave yer knickers on the floor. Its GO TIME.

Noam cheekily used Liams hand while he had him in some sort of deathgrip wristlock, and got everyone clapping to the sound of Liams bones crunching. Some rollups was followed by a strength test between two of the finest physical specimens you’ll see below 5 foot 9. Kevin Nash might call them vanilla midgets, but the thing about Kevin Nash is FUCK KEVIN NASH.
Nah I’m just joking big Sexay, I know ye read these things aw the time big yin. Never aff the blower telling me how much he loved Stevie Boys interview, and how Damo provides a unique insight. I’m like “mate, ye still not got this time difference thing figured oot? its hauf 4 in the morning” but after big Kev’s done talking my ear off, we get back tae shootin the shit about Noam n Liam.
Some antics outside the ring further hyped the crowd, as the most electrifying Jewish man in sports entertainment drew the whole of Birmingham in, by placing a single cube of cheese on the palm of his haun, and watching as they aw simultaneously scran it. The same hand he used to deliver a high 5 tae me, no quite as moist as the Newcastle cuddle, but we’re one encounter away fae being legally married now I reckon, and the same hand he used to deliver a vicious Khali chop to Thomsons dome. Thomson was fuckin sick of all the shite but. Liam Thomson is a serious wrestler mate. His burd could batter ye anaw. Do not fuckin cross the BAD BOOOOAY. Backbreaker to Noam for his troubles. After some Liam Thomson dome stomping, Noam hit oot with a dropkick and a northern lights suplex. Essentially, this match was the technical piece of deliciousness ye would have expected, but it was loaded wae fuckin FUN tae.

Thomson got back on top with a standing dropkick, and a dropkick to Noam as he hung on the middle rope in the 619 position. Mind when Grado was threatening to do a 619? I miss they days. I miss the days of turning up to every show wondering if this would be the one where Grado actually hits an F5. Why the fuck am I away on a tangent about Grado? Blame it on writing about his best pal eh. Ayrshire mafia n that. If Grado was Noams hauners he was nowhere to be found, but Liams hauners was right there by his side. The bold Carmel Jacob. Snarling at us and shooting oot wee lightning bolts fae her eyes that say “you disgust me”. She was not impressed with the level of professionalism Noam was bringing to the table, and decided tae stick her nose in eh. Kneebar for her troubles, before Thomson hit the backcracker for a 2 count, then everybody was scoop slamming. Carmel once again managed tae plead long enough with Noam for him to take his cheeky eye aff the prize and he caught the first scoop slam, and all of a sudden we wandered sack deep intae some domestic violence as a dazed Liam Thomson planted his burd with an emphatic scoop slam. Amdist the carnage, where a chair, and various humans were involved, the Jolly Jewish Japester scooped up another win to add to a growing collection of recent ICW triumphs. Noam Dar is back in fuckin business in terms of climbing the ICW ladder again, but he did need a wee bit of help from and old foe of Liam and Carmels as they went searching for vengeance. Vengeance in the form of slaying a poor Ayrshire boy before his dug’s even reached Barmitzvah age (struggle like fuck wae jokey anti-Semitism man, need tae fuckin drap it mate, its no working) but out came Stevie Boy to provide some much needed backup, only for Carmel to grab the mic, and query where his burd was.

“She in a weed induced coma aye?” said Carmel, quite judgingly.
“Aye…and I’m fuckin jealous…WAYHEEEEEY” was Stevie’s retort……probably.

Point is, the match is made, one more time. Mixed tag. Fear and Loathing. Stevie and Carmel vs Kay Liam Ray and Lee Thom…aw fuck, naw, its something else. Haud on. We’ll go wae THE BUCKY PEOPLE (Stevie Boy and Kay Lee Ray) versus THE POWER COUPLE (Liam Thomson and Carmel) and its like that, and that’s the way it is.

Another fuckin match? Fuck sake. This wrestling pish is non stop.

Grado and Kenny Williams vs Polo Promotions

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Listen. I’m Colt Cabana daft right. He’s a fun guy. He does the podcastin, the wrestlin, the comedian-in, the bein best pals wae CM Punk’in. I get it. Its a neat package. Irn-Jew were awrite and that. They scooped up the tag belts, and kept them for a bit. Fair play. It was a fun ride. But its OVER. Sometimes we need to leave the past behind, and search for greener pastures (that’s funny cause it has two meanings, ye see…Kenny Williams has only been wrestling for a couple of years, and Colt Cabana’s been wrestling for about 80, so it’s literally ‘greener’ pastures….geddit? Yeah…you geddit) and Grado has undoubtedly found a pal that’s MORE fun, MORE flippy, and decidedly MORE quiffy than Colt Cabana himself. Team Irn-Bollocks is born, but Polo Promotions take great pleasure in getting strawbs like these in the middle of that ring, poking them in the eyes while the ref’s distracted and gien them wedgies. They christened our wee team the Polo Promotions corner, and let us sniff Jackies t-shirt, but I was still sore from Mark betraying his brother the night before at SWA. Couldnae even look my favourite wrestler in the eye n tell him how much his deadlift belly to back suplex game has been ridiculously on point lately, cause if you betray the Iron Man, you betray us all. Even though he isnae the Iron Man in SWA…fuckin technicalities n that. Anyway…they had a match….

Kenny Williams and Mark Coffey started things off with aw the armdrags. A plethora of the fuckers, followed by some smooth maneuvers. Kenny Williams and Mark Coffey might be done for now as a feud, but there’s another stoater of a singles match in them. Nae doubt. Grado caught the hoat tag, and started slinging lariats about wae reckless abandon, before busting out a neckbreaker. Hurricanrana and the Springboard “where we’re going, we dont need roads, we just need the middle rope tae jump aff ae” Elbow. Kenny slung some kicks in Marks direction, but wound up planted with that belly to back suplex, and thats when the Polo Promotions troops got tae stomping a mudhole in the bollocks. Jackie Polo entered to perform his FAVOURITE WRESTLING MANEUVER 3 times in a row, for those of you not privvy to what that move is…FUCK YEES. Nah I jest, its his world famous, high arching scoop slam, know to have been the chief cause of many of your favourite pro wrestling hanging up their boots early because they just couldnt hack it anymore. CM Punk retired because he couldnae sleep at the mere thought of taking a Jackie Polo scoop slam, and having tae deal with the indignation of showing up at A and E, and explaining that “a Scottish guy wae a burst neck, literally scoop slammed my arse tae smithereens” BUT IRN BOLLOCKS RALLIED..course they did…they’re the goodies. Goodies always rally. Kenny Williams springboard elbow, followed by some shake rattle n rolling, atomic droppin and bionic elbow’in from Grado. Mark Coffey derailed that momentum with that huge decapitating lariat followed by the bridging belly to back suplex for a two count, before the Pumphandle Slam was blocked, and Grado hit the Rock Bottom. With Kenny keeping any interference at bay with yon baseball slide dropkick and suicide dive combination he does, the cost was clear for Irn-Bollocks to announce themselves on the ICW landscape as legit contenders to become masters and rulers of the tag team universe or…eh, spose they could just be tag title contenders eh. Or maybe not…

Don’t take yer fuckin eye off Mark Coffey. Its silliness. He’ll block yer F5 if ye do. He DID block Grado’s F5. Then he’ll Pumphandle Slam ye intae next Tuesday for the pinfall. He DID Pumphandl Slam Grado intae next Tuesday for the pinfall. Grado’s ICW cauld streak continues. They did give Mark and Jackie a wee doing afterwards, and stoated up the ramp kidding on they were DX. It was a laugh riot. Ye really shoulda been there.

Joe Coffey vs Kid Fite

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This is the simplest piece of booking in wrestling history. Not that I’m attempting to detract credit fae Dallas for booking it or that, but it made all the sense. Stick the guy who’s been having some of the most engaging matches on the tour (that’s Fito in case yer wondering) in the ring wae the finest wrestler in the galaxy. Nikki Storm wae a boaby. The Iron Man. Joe Coffey. This tour has had a huge Coffey shaped void, with him missing Liverpool and Leeds, so its only fitting that he appears on the last show, to fill that void wae a combination of perfectly executed wrestling moves, and getting white stuff on his opponent’s chest. Here we go….

We started with yer run of the mill collar and elbow tie-up, introducing the Birmingham crowd to the barrage of WRESTLING they were about tae experience. A shoulderblock exchange was never gonnae end well for Fito. Having met Joe earlier in the day, I can confirm for anyone who maybe wisnae sure. He’s essentially a tank wae human features. Know how in Mrs Doubtfire, when the brother makes the Mrs Doubtfire mask out of plaster and all of a sudden Robin Williams turns intae a wuman when he puts it on? Joe Coffey is essentially that, except instead of turning man intae wuman, they turned a war machine intae a war machine with a human face. He can fuckin move tae. Gets plenty of hang time on the dropkick, but Fito hit back with a peach of a brainbuster after an exchange of forearm smashes tae the fuckin jaw. The match was lovely. Fito calling my pal a “stupid bitch” on more than one occasion was superb tae. I cannae call her things like that, cause she can actually kill folk wae her eyes, so I was living vicariously through him at that moment. I became the Fito. Sealed the deal by whipping my baws oot as the match sailed along to its grand finale. The swing, followed by some splashes had Coffey in control, but his first spinning lariat attempt was blocked by some frenzied striking by Fito, only for the second attempt to hit home a successfully prize Fito’s heid aff his shoulders for the win. Generally when yer opponent no longer has a head, you win by default, by Joe pinned him anyway just to be sure. 

I’m no sure if I’m remembering this right, but I’m fairly certainly Joe offered Fito his hand afterwards and the baw brandishing bastard refused. Nae need at all. You’ve had a rare tour Fito. Yer singles stock in ICW has never been higher. The Iron Man toppled ye this time aye. So whit? Is that an excuse for acting basic? Nah mate. Unless this happened at a totally different time like. Might not even have been this show man. I dunno. They’ve all moulded into one beautiful kaleidoscope of struggling to sleep on buses, and BT Gunn scudding folk over the back of the skull. Over…and over…until all that’s left is a pair of abandoned kickpads, and a trough filled wae the mangled brain cells of his deid opponents. Joe emerged victorious anyway. And we moved on to something a bit special…

 

Big Damo vs Dave Mastiff

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Wrestling is a beautiful thing. Sometimes you see folk involved in wrestling try to inject as much cynicism and negativity into it as possible. Taking the things that make it special, and trivializing them. I get why that happens, but I’d like tae sit anyone who feels a bit jaded with pro wrestling down in front of this match, with the volume turned up loud, hoping tae fuck the mics picked up on the thunderous noise it made whenever one of these big hairy bastards sent his opponent crashing toward the canvas, and see how they feel after seeing it. I challenge anyone who claims to enjoy wrestling to not instantly fall in love with this match. Fucking…wrestling in its purest form. Ridiculously built, intimidating bastards dragging every single member of the audience by the collar, and drawing them in. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages, ICW proudly presents to you..A COUPLE OF FUCKIN BEARS KNOCKING FUCK OUT EACH OTHER.

“Baaaaastar…baaastard” Echoed round the Birmingham 02, as locals clinked beer bottles together and poked their heids out of their car windows, quietly breathing  “Daaaaamo….come out to plaaaaaaaay”  Damo was more than fucking ready though, and our merry wee band is travelling deviants got fuckin RIGHT behind the big man. I’ve always been a fan of Damo in this particular ICW run, but on Sunday night I was a fiend, and Damo was my addiction. Tap the vein, let the Irish Behemoth stream through. They stared each other down. Immovable bearded object meeting, ehhhh….a bearded brick wall. Fuck knows. All I know is that they both have big beards, and their chest measurements are a bawhair aff the circumference of the earths equator. There were a few tremors in the earth as they chucked shoulderblock after shoulderblock at each other, with neither man showing any inkling that he might back down. Damo broke the monotony wae a beauty of a scoop slam, followed by a slam akin to Mark Henrys Worlds Strongest Slam, which brought about some excellent casual racism as a “Yer just a white Mark Henry!” chant echoed round the building. I love big Mark, but yer man can barely walk the length of himself these days, so Damo would go on tae prove ridiculous that patter was cause Damo can not only walk the length of himself, but he’s fairly decent and jumping a lot higher than his body mass dictates he should; Yer man can fuckin slam dunk, as long as there’s a pint of Guinness on the basket that he can scoop while he’s up there. Motivation and all that. Know how else can jump a lot higher than god intended? Dave Mastiff, proving that was the case with an earth moving standing dropkick. The hardest irish whip in pro wrestling history followed, and sent the ringpost it was aimed at haufway tae Mars, before a chair was brought intae play, and utilised in a dropick…not for the last time I might add…(building suspense there….ye feelin that? gettin exctied? baws tingling? me tae man, and I was fuckin there the first time, imagine how much better it wis in person? Aw ye shoulda came tae Birmingham ya dafty. I mean, 6 hours on the bus is fine as long as ye’ve brought plenty of glue. AND MAGAZINES. But mainly glue….)

The anxiety of every human baring witness tae this war created a mist in the air, and the two warriors gained a second wind fae inhaling it as they leathered each other with endless forearms, before realising the mist they just inhaled was probably sweat, and dry heaving a bit. Damo hoisted Mastiff onto his shoulders for a thunderous rolling senton after that, and that was what made this match special. Cunts dont just hit rolling sentons on Dave Mastiff mate. He’s huge. Damo made it look routine. He made the chest stand and senton combination look easy anaw, but its fucking not, cause to achieve that, you need to immobilise Dave Mastiff, and that shit just isnae easy. The two collided like two skin coated double deckers with a sickening crossbody collision, before the two combined for what had tae be the worlds meatiest German Suplex. The noise when the two bears collide wae the canvas at the same time? Fuckin deafening. The chants started again. That endless, haunting noise that I’ve still no been able to shake off. As the natives banjoed therselves with frying pans to create a distant, spinechilling noise….”baaaastard….baaastard” Was the cry. They sensed the big man was heading for triumph in what was a fuckin spectacular ICW debut, but he took his aye aff the original flying bear, and the big man made him pay. As he sent Mastiff to the corner, the big man collapsed and Damo got that wide eyed way Hogan used to get when he was no-selling the jabs from the baddie. NOT TODAY MR MASTIFF. NOT WHILE DAMOMANIA’S RUNNIN WILD. With a chair propped on big Mastiff, Damo of course hoisted himself up to the top rope at the opposite corner and LAUNCHED his huge body all the way to the other side of the ring. VAN-DAMO-NATOR cleared for take off…aaaaand it LANDED. Mastiffs bell rung, and the actual bell rung soon after…cause Damo won n that. Feel like I wis heavy on the capitals describing that finish but tbf, the match wis fuckin TITANIC, and if I used CAPITALS to describe THE WHOOOOLE THING, then it probably would’ve been fitting. Hard tae read, but so’s the bible mate. Didnae stop Jesus did it. 

Despite their hero taking the loss, the crowd came together in unison to give them an emotional ovation. Stand up and let the best match on the tour feel yer appreciation. Cause that’s what this was. The second last match ICW had on the tour, and it was up there with Drew vs BT, and NAK vs Londrick. Thats a feat that both of these hairy manatees should be very proud of. I’d pay good money, and questionable kidneys tae see a repeat of these two going at it. Especially in an environment where the roles are reversed in terms of crowd backing, cause I could see big Mastiff being a fuckin beautifully vicious heel in that scenario. One of those matches that instantly etches itself in yer memory for all the right reason. The Bear vs The Bastard. Braw as fuck.

Jack Jester vs Jimmy Havoc (ICW Title Match) 

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Hardcore matches are always very hit and miss for me. When they tell a good story, I can get intae it. Jester and Havoc usually do tell a braw story tbf. The violence is background gore. Every thumbtack is a metaphor. Every staple to the baws is….a staple to the baws really. Sometimes ye need tae call a staple a staple, as the auld saying disnae go. I don’t know if it was due to the energy being sapped from the room by the magnificence that was Damo vs Mastiff, but this wasn’t as heart stopping as I expected. Havoc did take a minute to call us all cunts as you’d expect. Sick of bleeding for this company, and for all us cunts, Havoc then went on to fuckin….bleed.

Belt to the dome, and some flying chairs. Havoc was the latest to find out that trying tae stop this main event at the Barrowlands happening is fuckin stupidity. The staple gun was out next, as Jester stapled Havocs ankles to the lights hanging above the ring and smashed him about wae a cricket bat like a pinata. Nah I jest, he just stapled him hunners, before Havoc hit back with a hiptoss through the chair. The barbed wire board was out next. Sounds weird saying that considering Foley is my all time hero, and he buillt his reputation on going through these things, and putting Terry Funk through them, but the barbed wire board makes me feel ill. Even if the barbed wire isnae real. Even if its made out of auld toenail clippings and shards of aluminum fae auld Red Bull cans, it still gies me the heebie jeebies. A droptoehold and a hiptoss on to the board kicked off its involvement in the match, but it didnae really matter to Havoc, cunt was already bleeding anyway. At worst, his already sustained wounds would get a wee bit messier. The barbed wire became the instrument for maiming, as we slid along tae the brutal conclusion, on a wave of bloodied destruction. Wis that heavy poetic aye? It was meant to be heavy poetic. It was raining death after that, as Jester dumped about 10 tonne of thumbtacks on his skull, before planting Havoc wae the Tombstone, and a Futureshock DDT  on top of the tacks to seal the win and ensudre he headed into Fear and Loathing with the same belt he walked out of the event with a year before.

Jimmy Havoc greeted the Birmingham crowd with a lot of big chat about how much of a doing Jester was gonnae get, but the big yin lacked the usual conviction in his words. The same conviction that had London captivated when he turned on Jester a few months ago. If that Havoc turned up in Birmingham, he might not have left with the ICW Title, but he would have left wae a bit of Jesters soul. Probably a kidney tae. Nae particular reason, but kidneys are valuable, or at least they’d make a decent makeshift pillow. Aye. Jester retains, and moved on to Fear and Loathing will a shiny belt, and probably all of his teeth. Another message sent to Drew by using the Futureshock tae, but the big man’s no feart. He’s 6 foot 6 for fuck sake. And he’s coming to The Barras to add another shiny belt to his every growing collection.

 

 

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One thought on “ICW – Ringo’s Despair Review (Birmingham)

  1. Pingback: ICW Fear and Loathing 7 Preview (BARROWLANDS – GLESGA – YASS) |

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