There have been many prizefights hosted in Glasgow over the years. Jim Watt vs all the dudes he knocked the fuck out. Scott Harrison vs the polis. Alex Arthur vs everyone who remembers Alex Arthur (thats a 2 on 1 handicap match), Ricky Burns vs proper pronunciation of the word “trainer” (he calls his boxing trainer “guttie”…boy’s a bit simple) and of course, Greg Hemphill and Red Lightning vs Rab Florence and Grado in a sold out Kelvin Hall (4 out of those 5 things were jokes…can ye guess what ones?) but did any of them top this night? As an event of true significance in terms of the business it represents, the 2015 Square Go was as big as it gets. To produce a show that is almost picture perfect as an individual wrestling show, and to simultaneously combine that with a lot of things that will spark the direction the company goes in for 2015 is something quite special. To have 1,300 packing out my favourite place in the world, the O2 ABC Glasgows, and to see each and every living soul in the place captivated by it would make yer heart swell so it would. It was a tremendous night, and in case you hadn’t picked it up by now, this review will be the sunniest, perhaps most hilarious thing that’s ever been on this site. For reasons I will keep to myself in order to remain a professional journalist in the profession of journalism. This review is about as professional as it gets. Much like my stellar conduct throughout the evening, and the hours which followed.
This was Renfrews time. Maybe not in the way you might think, but.make no mistake about it, as impressive as each and every one of the people were who stepped through the ropes for the 3 singles matches that took place before the Square Go itself, none of them faced a challenge like Renfrew did. He stood toe to toe with a titan, and matched Drew Galloway every step of the way. That made this his night, even if it meant he had to take the final blow of seeing his brother stab him in the back to add a second layer of flesh eating disappointment. We started the night thinking we might see someone open their eyes, and ended it with Dickie Divers having his closed against his will. If that’s a spoiler, then that means you haven’t seen the show yet, and thats stupid. Rectify that now here
Joe Coffey vs Jack Gallagher
Every success story in pro wrestling involves a climb. It involves many rites of passage that the eventually successful wrestler has to go through to earn that spot at the top. Some people make that climb within a short period of time. Taking every opportunity handed to him and combining it with their strengths to maximise the potential. I’m sure this an alogorithm somewhere that has this shit all worked out, but Joe Coffey has nae time for maths. Joe Coffey only has time for two things. Heavy lifting, and LARIATOOOOOOO.
He does both of those things beautifully, but the second one will always be central to Joe Coffey’s rise up the ICW ladder, and the wrestling ladder in general. Every instance of someone rising above the pack and becoming “the guy” has significant milestones along the way. In Austins case, he had to prove he could hang with Bret Hart and Shawn Michaels before they gave him the spot he craved.
He matched and surpassed them, so his chance was earned. In the case of Mikey Whiplash in ICW, he had to prove he could withstand all the brutality Jack Jester could throw at him, combined with trying to mentally and physically dismantle Grado, all while putting on wrestling clinics with Robbie Dynamite. He earned his spot too. Joe Coffeys road to Barramania has been filled with false promises, and moments where he was perhaps overlooked in favour of the person who gets the biggest cheer. Joe Coffey started as a pro wrestler, and remains a pro wrestler to the core, but as he stands on the cusp of immortality, it’s improvement that has got him to this point. Continually looking at what he’s good at and becoming better at it, whilst continuing to add strings to the bow. The feud with James Scott captivated everyone in late 2013/early 2014. The Noam Dar match series was masterpiece after masterpiece. The BT Gunn war was 10-15 minutes of the physically and emotionally draining brilliance, and his first meeting with Jack Gallagher was undoubtedly the standout of Shugs House Party, so when he grabbed the mic after winning Wrestler of The Year at the ICW Awards, and addressed his peers knowing he would be the next guy to main event the Barras, he needed to inspire. He needed to push the buttons of his two potential opponents who were staring right at him, and by fuck. He certainly did that. So that leaves one ore rung of that ladderto climb. One more test before he goes toe to toe with the best. That test was a challenge. An Iron Man challenge, and Joe didn’t care a fucking jot as to whit dafty from somewhere out in the wrestling world fancied half an hour with an Iron Man.
Unless it was god himself, with Scott Stieners biceps, and Bobo Balde’s pointy elbows, they didnae have a hope. The man who answered the call after Joe was received with a rousing reception was more of a scholar than a killer. The gentleman’s gentleman, and one of the few people in Scotland on the evening in question capable of doing something physically exhausting for 30 minutes straight. The Grappler. Jack Gallagher
I realise he disnae look like that anymore, but of the photos I seen on google, that was my favourite. Nice sideys Jack ma man. Of course this started with a respectful handshake and wee nod that said “we’re about to tear it up 30 minutes, and it’ll be a beautiful, sweaty, union of men” They tied up for almost four minutes to get the proper wrestling side of things started, spilling to the outside and rolling off barriers before settling for a clean break and rolling back inside. A 30 minutes Iron Man match definitely needs to split into specific segments. You can’t riff for 30 minutes. And that was the collar and elbow battle section for anycunt wondering, which ended in a 0-0 draw, and everyone happy wae the state of their jaw. We then got into the “innovative ways to get out of a headscissors” as Jack escaped with a variation of backflips, sideslams, clotheslines and side suplexes (sorry I might be channelling that old Silver Vision advert from years ago, which may or may not be the intro of the Snapmare Necks podcast, coming to an ear near you very soon) It was Joes turn to try and escape from something after that as despite Joe’s best protests, Jack tied him up intae a wee package filled with muscles, hair and probably a touch of regret for letting himself get into that state in the first place.
There are many ways this predicament becomes not a predicament for Joe. He could verbally give up and give Jack the first decision of the match. He could do rolly pollys until he gets to the back for somecunt to untie him, or at least dig a tranquilliser dart into his arse so he unfolds naturally…OR he could trust the code of honour between pro wrestlers and trust that after a certain amount of time Jack Gallagher would start getting a bit annoyed at the humiliation Joe’s going through, and he’d want it to end. Of course theres many ways to bring that to an end, but its still a competition at the end of the day and do you know what adds spice to any competition? Even one’s not related to any sort of physicality? KICKING A CUNT RIGHT UP THE ARSE. Father Jack took a wee break from swigging whisky out the bottle and proddin his baws with the bit aff an auld car battery to kick Bishop Coffey straight up the arse.
We of course gently transitioned into the thing these two do better than most other things with a pulse and eyebrows. They done wrestling. Together, but against each other. Pro wrestling is maybe the only form of entertainment in the world that can claim to put two competitors up against each other whilst also requiring them to work together. Besides competitive wanking anyway. They twisted into variations of armbars, wristlocks, waistlocks, a crossarmbreaker attempt from Jack which Joe blocked by locking his hands together. And abdominal stretch type of thing on the ground, where Jack tried to debilitate all of Joes limbs at once. Joe used his strength on numerous occasions to counteract the craft of the ginger grafter, deadlifting him from the cross-armbreaker position and slamming him, only for Jack to have his arm wretched in a submission whilst he leaned back on it like it was a massive meaty hammock. Look and see if ye dont believe meJoe was a wee bit sick and tired of being used as a bendy human comforter at this stage and gave Jack a wee taste of the mighty side, chucking him intae the corner at full pelt and unleashing a few chops, before engaging in the more intricate side of his work on the mat. After a few reversals, they eventually made it to their feet, only for Joe to sweep Jack straight off his feet wae the sweet serenade of a big bastdin lariat. 1…2….NUT. Still 0-0. Somehow.
Frustrations growing, and sweat covering around 90% of the wonderful O2 ABC in Glasgow, with wonderful staff and reasonable drinks prices, Joe entered in to the JOE COFFEY POWER HOUR. Or eh…..well, the next few minutes anyway. The big barra leathered Gallagher into a couple of corners with hard irish whips, hitting a low splash in one of the corners after taking Gallagher down with ferocious jabs to the breid besket (how ye feeling about saying “besket” instead of “basket”? that workin for yees? Let me know by leaving a comment, even though I don’t actually read my comments…let me know ye care) the power hour continued on the upward momentum train as Joe flung Jack aboot lit an empty happy meal box. Tossing him to the outside and imploring referee Sean McLaughlin to “COUNT OR DIE!” he counted plenty, but Jack fought back. No 10s today, the best Joe could pull was a solid 6 and a half. Awrite for a weekday, BUT THIS IS SUNDAY NIGHT AT THE MAGICAL O2 ABC BAYBAAAAAAY. We need 10s. We need multiple kicks to the back of the skull that dont quite take Jack Gallagher off his feet, and after a failed pinning attempt, the last kick done the trick. Jack Gallagher brought to his knees just like whitever English king we beat when we won the thing, that battle we won. Did we win a battle? I think we won at least one of them. The second leg of that Euro 2000 play-off. 1-0. Don Hutchinson. No to give away the finish, but I spoiled it for everycunt around me anyway by correctly guessing that it would be 1-0 to Joe with a lariat in the last 5 seconds. Was I correct? Stay tuned for a rundown of the last 10 minutes to find out. Until then I will let you have a gander at this while I go wait on the kettle boiling for this pot noodle.
Some erse on ye Sean mate. Well done. That erse shot is covering a lovely heidlock, which the boys rose up out of for a wee suplex battle of wills won by Gallagher. Followed that up with a beauty of a standing dropkick, before hanging himself up in the corner and blocking Coffeys charges by danging his leg out and going “Nut….back the fuck aff big yin” We evetually found ourselves in a pinfall cartwheel loop as both men got their opponent for numerous 1 and 2 counts, and about a million naecounts as Sean stopped for a wee breather and a shot at the crossword oot the paper. Jack boldly offered Joe his chin, after a brief period of being swing about like a like a dirty on the dancefloor of the catty, but after a few decidedly erotic slaps, Jack blocked Joes arm with a dropkick before pulling him down into another cross-armbreaker attempt. Joe had it well scouted (which is handy cause it could have been a “DEVASTATING MANOEUVRE”) and once again deidlifted all 12 stone of the glistening ginger up, and chucking him intae the Clyde, following that up with some splashes in the corner (see that links up cause I said he chucked him in the Clyde, and that’s a body of water, so if ye hit it…ye would splash…ye get it? Sound)
A fairly emphatic ribcage shatterer of a missile dropkick let us all know that it was the last 5 minutes and Joe Coffey was no longer fuckin aboot.
Gallagher had one last flurry of wrasslin in him, and let me tell ye, it was the grandest of aw the flurrys. Even better than that time I got double the smarties in my smarties mcflurry when I wis a young yin, and I couldnae see for smarties that day. A sleeper almost had Joe knocked out, but as he rolled to the ropes, oor Jack was plotting something even more devastating than a sleeper. It was only a bloody Butterfly Suplex eh? The daintiest, most welcoming sounding move in the wrestling handbook, and with the indication coming from Jack that it was game the fuck over, and he was going for that flying heidbutt, Joe’s spidey senses felt like dunting some jaw with some uppercuts. Catching Jack on the top rope and scudding his jaw with thunderous uppercut accuracy. The uppercuts forced Jack to sit erse first on his perch up top, and when yer sitting down erse first (99% of all seats taken are erse first according to OPTA statistics) you’re leaving yourself wide open to be deadlift superplexed to fuck. We came to the final countdown, and the way both men seemed to kick intae hyperdrive was reminiscent to two boxers emerging from their corners for the 12 round. Fight neck and neck. Whoever has the most gusto wins that fight. Whoever has the stones to throw everything they fucking have into it, gets the decision, and even though I spoiled this earlier, ye’ll probably have forgot by now, so I’ll spoil it again. That man was the IRON MAN.
Joe Coffey swinging Gallagher for a bit before before catapulting him into the corner, led to an exchange of splashes, back elbows and dropkicks in opposing corners from both men, led us to the vinegar strokes. The prime bit of beef right in the juicy middle bit of yer wrasslin steak. The final, orgasmic minute of Iron Man wonder. Here we fuckin go.
Blow one was struck by Gallagher. A flying headbutt for a two count. Then we got into the open hand slaps, the closed fist (frowned upon) jabs and the spinning kicks, only for Joe to toss Jack into the ropes and hurl him a hunner feet intae the air, catching him with a peach of an uppercut as he made his return to earth. Deadlift German Suplex closesly followed by a huge short arm lariat led us to the final 10 second count down, and with 4 seconds remaining JOE COFFEY TOOK THE LEAD. My god ladies and gentleman, after a brutal war between two pure wrestling perfectionists, we had us a fuckin decision. 29 minutes and 55 seconds later and that would be enough to see MIGHTY JOE COFFEY reign supreme as the Iron Man for another year. He took the mic and triumphantly told the packed out, wonderful O2 ABC in Glasgow, that their support gave him the fuel that powers the Iron Man steam train, and has led him to the station of destiny. Barramania big yin. It’s all there for ye. This is your time. Abca-abra cadabra. Got tae reach out and grab that belt. JOE FOR CHAMP. 4 LIFE.
What a beautiful spectacle that was though. If you’re a cunt who found that half an hour of pure deliciousness boring. ye can consider yourself no longer a friend of Snapnexxx.
Drew Galloway vs Chris Renfew (ICW Title Match)
I’m intae the big intros before talking about matches, but if you want the background, check out the Chris Renfrew interview, Drew Galloway interview and this thing anaw. For anyone unaware of how emotionally charged this one was set to be, read those things and educate yerselves. For those of you looking beyond the rivalry and match itself, and looking straight at an ICW icon standing on the edge of glory, you’ll know fine well this has been a long time coming. A tranformation from fat guy with an attitude, to being 15 stone of pure, dropkicking, gang leading evil. Chris Renfrew is not the man who used an umbrella to perform a legdrop on his future NAK brother James “Darkside” Scott 2 years ago. That fun loving, extremely violent, cuddly hero died a hunner deaths as soon as he cracked a kendo stick over Mark Dallas napper.
What we have left is the orchestrator of carnage, and the man who’s played mind games with whatever specimen holds the belt he craves for the past year. Sent Jester clean off his nut before dragging one of the most recognisable names in wrestling into a low down dirty war of words. As much as I love Drew, and me covering this a journalistic journalist of journalism should mean I remain impartial, fuck impartiality. Fuck fence sitting. Fuck what me or anyone else is supposed to do, cause this is ICW. The heavyweight title is on the line, and I had wore Renfrews CR Drunk tee in a total of 7 different cities in the United Kingdom, but none of them meant anything unless he stepped into the wonderful O2 ABC in Glasgow (a venue where you, your band, travelling circus or professional orienteering team should consider holding their next live event if possible) in front of the best fans (and event staff) in the world that took on the giant. Not only did he need to take the big bastard in, he needed to WIN. Clean as fuck.
So when he made his entrance to rapturous response, and was greeted with Drew jumping out the crowd in Heartos old invisibility cloak/hoody, and cracking Divers with a chair. He knew what that signified. Drew wanted Renfrew one on one, and Renfrew obliged by telling a deid Divers to make his way to the back. No matter how much of a villian Renfrew is, he craved the respect and clout that would come with knocking Drew Galloway off his perch, and by fuck, he was ready for the challenge. Shape of yer life big man. Wrestling better than ever. Is this it. Is it time for this to be reality?
WHIT THE FUCK….QUICK ROLLUP…1….2…….AWWWWWWWWW
Intensity can only get you so far Mr Galloway. Despite the brilliant shape Renfrew is in, as an athlere you are better. As a wrestler you are better. As an ambassador for ICW to a wider audience, you are of course better than Chris Renfrew, but as a thinker, no one in ICW comes near him, and whilst the physically impressive ambassadors of this world are out there doing all their powerful ambassadorial work, the thinkers of this world are running the fuckin joint. This is Chris Renfrews playground and if Drew Galloway was going to convince these people he was the man to take the company forward from this point on, he’d have to topple the man that so many see as the figurehead. He’d have to go to war physically and mentally and he’d have tae fuckin win. Blow one was struck with Galloway spitting in Renfrews face. A signal to Renfrew that he had driven Drew to the brink and only defeat for Drew Galloway would see him earn Renfrews respect. A takedown and a brutal exchange of hefty jabs followed, before Renfrew slithered out of the first futureshock attempt of the night with a smile that said “I know something you dont know” Fuck know what that might be. Probably a cheat code tae get the big Smackdown fist in the old PS2 games tae become animated and punch folk. Either way we came to a standoff after a predictably frenetic start. Calm the fuck doon. This has a while to go yet.
A tussle led to Drew pulling Renfrew up by the wee cords on his duffel coat, and unleashing a stoater of a powerbomb against the turnbuckles only for Renfrew to pull the pain inward and release it in the form of a heid removing lariat he likes to call “Greetings For Silent Hill”. First blood Renfrew. He went from dislodging Drew neck to trying tae kick his leg out of his leg, as he smartly tried to remove the vertical base of the big man (shoehorning in as many 90s WWF commentator quotes as possible here) but Drew was wise tae it. Pushing Renfrew out in the crowd as he tried to lock in the figure 4 on the ringpost and it was to the bar we went. Because whits an ICW Title match without refreshments? Chops were delivered to Renfrew before Drew encourage Renfrew to “KICK ME IN THE BAWS” but instead he just hit him in the face, or eh….that might be the other way about. Either way faces were threatened and baws were broken. Renfrew attempted to get the better of Drew by raking the coupon but Drew kept batting him away, so Renfrew decided to dingy the intricate villain stuff; instead deciding to chuck Drew shoulders first against a wall with a MOTHERFUCKIN GERMAN SUPLEX IN THE CROWD. BY CHRIS RENFREW?! YE WHIT?
Aye. That really happened. After having the fuckin audacity to spit one of the O2 ABCs finest beverages in Renfrews face, he was so enraged he chucked him Lesnar style intae the wall. Drew disnae yield to his oppressors though. He learns how to climb on top of them and make them his property. In this case his property was a wall, and he was firing flying clotheslines on tae Renfrew from the top of the mountain. Renfrew might have been deid briefly at that point, but Drew still dragged his rotting corpse round to the stage where he set up two tables, ready for the old “Flying Quadruple Tombstone Last Ride Through The Table From Hell” but Renfrew fought out of it. Backdropping Drew on to the matt, before setting him up at th edge of the stage to go through the tables, but Drew done that thing ye see all the time in battle royales where one guy runs at the other, and the guy goes “haud on…I dont need tae just stand and take this” as he moves himself to the side and adds his momentum to the guy running at him, causing an impactful blow to occur as a result. Or if you didn’t understand any of that guff…he put him through the tables. Chris Renfrew is dead. Wrestling gives Renfrew life. So when he hit the ring again he rose up like a phenom…..and got hit wae a brutal piledriver. Ok…I think he might be dead again, haud on to we check…..NOPE. Kicked out at two. We got back in the ring and eventually we seen Renfrew placed up that top rope. Have a wee seat Mr Nak 4 Lyf, while Drew plots his next feat of inhuman strength. He had to endure being hung up baws first on that sare looking cable ICW use for the ropes in their bigger ring, as Renfrew once again went at his legs, only for Drew to pull himself up from being hung by the fuckin ankles, before grabbing Renfrew and chucking him toward one of the many conveniently located fire exits in the startling O2 ABC. Drew went for the tombstone, but Renfrew fuckin smelled it. He could taste it. We all fucking could. It was electric. Every single second of that match grabbed the people watching it, put them right in the pal of its hand, and squeezed tight until every single persons heart burst oot their weary chest. STONE COLD STONER. 1…2…….GET TAE FUCK…THAT WIS IT….NAW NAW NAW. FUCK SAKE. Only a 2? a fuckin 2? that’s not the magic number right now. That’s no whit we need.
A fuckin bastardin two count. Snap German Suplex fae Renfrew immediately followed by this beautiful boot to the coupon
Lovely eh? David J Wilson is an artist. That big boot brought a near fall, before a second slightly smaller boot led to Futureshock attempt number two. This time Renfrew hung on to the ropes before climbing up to the second yin and hitting this belting missile dropkick. Feel like I’m over-saturating this review with photos, but how can I not when they’re all so pretty?
All these pretty pictures to distract us from the tragedy eh. That’s all it is. Filling a void. Not long after this gorgeous dropkick landed, we had the death knell. The final nail in the coffin. Quit playing games with my heart Drew, just dae it. They rolled off each other like fuckin ballet dancers, twisting and turning their bodies in a majestic violent orgy of suspense, only for Renfrew to emerge from the battle with a Futureshock DDT delivered to his skull. Fuckin game over. Nae cunt kicks out of this when its hit as crisply and emphatically as that. Fuck this. I’m away up the road. If I need tae watch this cage match now, I’ll hing myself fae the fucking thing, but OH MY FUCK, HE DID NOT KICK OUT. HE DID! HE KICKED OUT. THE DREAM LIVES!
Did your heart stop? It fuckin better have. If your heart continued beating as normal when Renfrew kicked out of that, you are wrong and you need to change. Right now. Re-align the behaviour bits of yer brain and make them normal. Or further warp them. Either way, that shit was electric. Drew got a bit desperate after that. Screaming at somecunt…ANYCUNT, to get him a chair and after eventually getting his hands on one and skelping Renfrew over the back with it a few times, he went on top for….fuck knows. A flying chair crossbody or suhin. Either way he got CAUGHT and STONE COLD STONERED. REALLY SORRY FOR MAKING SO MANY THINGS ALL CAPS HERE, BUT YOU NEED TO BE AWARE OF THE ENORMITY OF THIS SITUATION. 1…2…..AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKIN AT IT MAN.
He kicked out. Of course he did. The phenomenal big cunt. A backslide turned into a Futureshock DDT on a chair after that, and the dream was over. Chris Renfrew would not cash in his Square Go Title shot for the ICW Title. Chris Renfrew went toe to toe with the best. Straight up. Matched him every single step of the way, and at times surprised him with going above and beyond even the usual high level of madness Renfrew is accustomed to. This match done exactly what it intended to do. It showed Drew is more than willing to scrap with every available tool he has, and every single bit of his skillset he needs to utilise to get it done, and get it done in the face of probably the only non pro Drew crowd he’ll face in ICW (I reckin him vs Coffey will be split) Somehow he prevailed in the face of an utterly relentless Chris Renfrew, but the handshake and kind words Drew had afterwards proved, Chris Renfrew IS in Drew Galloways league, and will only grow stronger from this disappointment. The ICW Title might not be Renfrews in the near future, but it is his destiny and he will have other moments. Until then he can continue to look upon this one fondly. As can Drew. Perhaps the best match either of them have ever had.
Wolfgang vs BT Gunn (Steel Cage Match)
Do you want to play a game?
Sure. We’ll dance for a while. You’ll do your superkicks, and I’ll sell them to fuck. I’ll do my powerbombs and my Swanton Bombs. I’ll rattle you aff this cage, you’ll rattle me aff this cage but ultimately this will come down to a game. A game of life or death. Do you want to play with me like we used to when we were wee? Remember when we stood heel to heel in the face of all those bullies in our scheme, and chased them off. Remember when you told me “naw Barry…we need to stand and fight” and I stood tall and earn my stripes as a man? Now you’ve brought us to this. Two cousins with each other lives in our hands. Both of our mothers are going to cry. We’re gonnae put them through this because of you, so now you need tae chose. The game is simple. If you want to live, when I hang you by your fucking neck off the top of that cage, if you you chose life you’ll climb back up. If you choose death, I’ll drop the chain and let you to fall to the floor. The victor. A corpse. A martyr. Or I could drag you back in here and beat you to within an inch of your life, and walk out the fucking door like I’ve just tanned my breakfast and I’m away oot tae dae the milk run. Up tae you Tam. The game ends soon. Its up tae you how it ends.
Tick tock. You say you wont open your eyes. Your eyes have been opened all along. So what happens when your eyes can no longer open? What happens then? Who runs the pub? Who drives the motorbikes? Who throws the W up? Naecunt. You’ll be known as the guy who died on his sword for a company that continually stabbed him in the fucking back. You’ll be known as the pawn. You can point at me all ye fucking like as I glare at you from the top of this cage. Does it look like I gie a fuck? I’m the fucking oddity. I’m no longer the daft wee boy I wis, and you keep thinking this is over but while you’re still breathing it never will be. Never.
The bell cannot be rung until both feet hit the floor. Wolfgang let his hit the canvas in the form of a double sledge off the top rope. Hard Irish Whips and vicious chopping ensued. The first betrayal avenged. The briefcase over the head in Newcastle. 1..2..3.
How does that feel Tam? How did it feel when I caught you like you were nothing, and absorbed your forearms like they were flies landing in the vicinity of my tune baguette oota Greggs. Whats your end game with this pish? Trying to escape before we’ve even danced a wee bit. Where’s your sense of fun? Don’t make me hurt ye. We can end this without it getting to that.
There’s nae turning back. Baws first to the ropes for you. Missile dropkick against the cage. If this comes down to life or death, you will go for the long sleep with your eyes wide open.
London was different. I thought you’d face me like a man and you hid behind a decoy. Thats when I realised you were beyond the point of no return. Tam died that night, and his ribcage is about to die right fucking now. SPEAR.
Superkick. stunned ye.
Lariat aff the ropes. Lights out.
Whit ye on aboot stale mate? This match is anything but stale ya clown.
Aye awrite. I wis trying to be arty. That wasn’t Wolfgang we seen at yer Square Go. This was Barry. The man behind the beast. He screamed at all four sides of the wonderful ABC venue in Glasgow’s city centre and told them this was his house. And they needed to let him hear them go fucking nuts. The problem with it being Barry the person in there, is that it was also his cousin Tam in there with him, and his cousin Tam wanted to boot him in the baws. Doon ye go big chap.
Catch me if ye can big man. Here I come. Flying at yer fucking heid like by boots flew at yer dome when yer heid was wedged in that steel chair. NAK for ….
POWERSLAMS. Down you fucking go. I’m out of here.
Wolfgang decided to take the long, glorious route. Up and out. Whilst BT gently eased himself towards the door. Doon ye get big man. It’s not time yet. BT pulled a chair into the ring as he clutched at his life outwith the cage door. Now we have toys. Destructive toys.
I told you I didn’t want to play anymore. Now you’re gonnae make me go beyond the already near death inducing madness I’ve tapped into throughout this past year. Kick to the back of the skull. Stay down. I’m climbing over the top of this fucking thing and my feet WILL touch the floor. I can assure you of that. Stay the FUCK down. I’ll have one last look when I get to the top and if you’re still on your fucking feet gawping at me, it’ll be the last decision you ever make. STAY DOWN. Aw for fuck sake, there’s the cunt up. Plancha aff the cage.
I told ye Tam. This only ends when one of us dies. You can do whatever the fuck you like to me. You can break both my legs. Shatter my spine. Kick my prostate intae my liver. Kick my liver intae my throat. Throw as many punches and open hand slaps as you physically can. Smack me err the fuckin heid with as many chairs as Tommy Dreamer can pull out his arse. I do not care. This game only ends when one of us no longer gets to breathe.
Fuck this. You’ve fuckin lost it Barry. I’m out mate. This has gone too far. I done ye wrong but we can finish this with our lives mate. Both of us. We can repair this. I’ve done wrong, you’ve done wrong. Its possible to mend it. Let me climb out. Let me end this.
He did not yield. Not yet anyway. Back suplex off the cage. Blood pouring from his forehead to his teeth. The Shaolin and the Wu-Tang…are DANGEROUS.
I FUCKING TOLD YOU TAM. Life or fucking death. Don’t fuck about wae me pal. This has gone on for too long. Where’s yer wee buddies now eh? Naewhere. This is not for them. This fight. This is me and you. Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh and I told you the only way your feet touch that floor before mine is if the rest of you is fuckin DEID. You could have ended it. You could have let me walk. You persisted and this is what you’ve driven me to. Gie me yer fuckin neck, remember the dog collar match where you begged me for yer life? No amount of begging is gonnae help you this time kid.
I am prepared to die for this. Do your worst.
Wolfgang placed the collar on BT Gunns neck. Sending him to his execution. It was time for it to end. He pulled his cousin in for short arm clotheslines, only for BT to turn the tables, wrapping the chain around his first and chucking hard blows to the bridge of Barrys beak. The collars still round yer neck Booty! For the love of fuck man, take it aff before ye start climbing. Aw naw. Aw naw. Here it comes.
I TOLD YOU. I TOLD YOU THIS GAME ONLY ENDS WHEN ONE OF US PERISHES AND YOU DIDNAE BELIEVE ME DID YE TAM? LOOK AT YE NOW. Legs swinging. Needing the security cunts to bat yer wee legs up to keep oxygen entering your body. DOES THIS MAKE YOU HAPPY? Is this what you wanted for us? Cling to your life BT. That’s all you are now. BT Gunn. An oddity. About 1 minute from being a deid oddity if you don’t make your choice. Life or death. Climb or hang. Live or die.
Climb with me Barry. Hang here with me. Its so peaceful. We’ll walk into the light together. Look at all these people. They’re here for us, can you believe it? They paid money to see us do the thing we love and we’re giving them something special. Some of them are crying Wolfie. They think I’m gonnae die. We have them. We made it. We’re here.
They took a moment to sit atop the masterpiece they had crafted and take a look around. BT Gunn was of course safe. Pulling himself to safety so he could savour every last waking moment of this. They had done it. This is what they always dreamed of it and it was happening before out very eyes in the SOLD OUT O2 ABC IN GLASGOWWWWWW SCOTLAND. They battled. They jabbed. BT fell to the ground. They both had beating hearts and the floor was right there. Do it Wolfie. Do it. End this.
I TOLD YOU. LIFE OR DEATH. IF ITS MY DEATH, IT’LL BE AN HONOURABLE ONE. I WILL ONLY DROP TO THIS FLOOR WHEN YOUR EYES ARE FIXED RIGHT ON ME AS I DO. GET THE FUCK UP.
Wolfgang for fuck sake. He climbed all the way up. He wanted the moment. The Jeff Hardy life altering back bump. The missed Swanton off the top of the cage. Wolfie for fuck sake mate. Ye didnae need to do that did ye? Think of the weans.
You fucking idiot. Look what ye done. You had it. I fell. I gave you the chance. Drop to the floor and this ends. Why did you make me see that? Your fucking back could be broken, and it’ll go nicely with yer heart cause I’m fucking done wae this. Fuck all is worth this. NAK. Wrestling. Life. Death. None of it matters if this is what we need to put ourselves through. So guess whit. I win. Again. You never get to tell a fucking soul you got the better of me cause you plainly did not. The most one sided feud since Diesel n Bob Backlund ya fuckin diddy ride. Oddity out. NAK FOR LIIIIIIFE. Open your eyes and see me become a legend.
I told you. Life or death. This ends. You handed me the chain to hang you with you daft fucking cunt. And you stood there wide eyed, windswept and interesting. Begging me to tie your legs up. You never wanted to win this did you Tam? You never wanted either of us to die. It was my turn. It was always gonnae be my turn. “FUCK YOU. THIS IS OVER!!”
As BT Gunn made his climb to victory, Wolfgang sat up and realised his cousin had left him the very instrument he needed to stop him in his tracks. He reached through the cage and pulled BT Gunns legs through, tying them up with the chain before making his own climb, and sending his 19 stone of knackered body to the floor with a middle finger and an elbow drop. This was the only way. If you think Wolfgang vs BT Gunn has gone on this long because BT Gunn is a maniac and needed to kill his cousin, or get him to join the cause, you’re mistaken. The fire still burned in this family feud because Wolfgang needed a good, clean, brutal win and by fuck did he get it here. The most venomously battled cage match in the history of cage matches between two cousins. This is finally it. This is over. They applauded each other and both nodded. They both knew. They survived. They capitvated thousands of fans. It’s time to end it.