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 Glasgow, 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 that’s 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 algorithm 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 ladder to 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” 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 minute 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 there’s 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 don’t 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 dangling his leg out and going “Nut….back the fuck aff big yin” We eventually 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. 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, but Joe thwarted it, catching Jack on the top rope and scudding his jaw with thunderous uppercut accuracy. The uppercuts forced Jack to sit arse first on his perch up top, and when yer sitting down arse first (99% of all seats taken are arse 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 into 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 closely 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.
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 transformation 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 one table, Renfrew handily setting up the other, 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 the edge of the stage to go through the tables, but Drew done that thing ye see all the time in battle royals 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. At least the one with the most fan investment in perhaps the history of Scottish Wrestling. BT and Wolfie is a wee bit more emotional, but in terms of true competition with coveted prizes on the line. This iconic image personifies it. Chris Renfrew belongs.
I gave my CR Drunk tee to one of my co-best pal team after this match, cause she heavy gret when Renfrew lost and it marked the end of an era. This was not to be Renfrews moment. The CR Drunk era ended with that Futureshock DDT, but a new Renfrew will be born. A more bitter, more violent, more terrifying prospect than ever before, but it widnae be this match that would push him to the brink. Instead it would be the betrayal of his brother.
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 fought like a man, shoulder to shoulder with my own flesh and blood? 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 tuna 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 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 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 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 captivated thousands of fans. It’s time to end it.
Dallas, Toal, and a new GM
You can never trust that pesky lightning. Once a wanker. Always a wanker, and it disnae matter a fuck if you do your wanking for self interest or for the people. A wanker will always be a wanker. After Dallas and Toal had done such a tremendous job of getting that warm fuzzy feeling going by bellowing about going out and fucking taking a tv deal. Sick of jumping through hoops. In order to get a TV deal, Mark Dallas would have to shift his focus into that and that means leaving the wrestling side in the capable hands of a man he can trust. A man who has been training for this role his whole life. A man who captured the hearts and minds of a nation with his starring role in Insane Fight Club 2, a man who….wait….whit d’ye mean its no Toal?
So yer telling me this man dresses up like Solar, Yoda, CM Punk, Joe Hendry and Jack fuckin Jester, and ye don’t trust him to run yer show. Fuck that. Fuck this. Pop out yer nut for whoever ye fucking please. Oh its Red Lightning aye? That might be awrite actually. Sorry Toal. Love ye n that, but this is clearly the man for the job. Your day will come.
Lightning was introduced as a man who had turned over a new leaf, but the joyful thing about being a wanker is that it never dies. You were born to make people fucking hate you and you will manipulate them any way you please to get that mission accomplished. Fuck what you think. Fuck what you are. Red Lightnings goal in ICW was always to get power. Thats why The Gold Label and The Save Pro Wrestling Movement were ever born. Strength in numbers. But we were always overhauled by fighting from within, so Red Lightning had to do his fighting from within. He had to lie, cheat and steal his way to a position of power, and now that he’s got it, you backstabbers and betrayers can all chew a boaby. This is Red Lightnings house now, and the wanker is no longer for the people. Spacebaws was a stepping stone to cutting your fuckin throats while he dwells in ICWs trachea. Every single one of the cunts that wronged him will pay. This is the moment he’s been patiently waiting on. He was a villain from the day he unleashed his first yawn in disappointment at someones shite patter.
This is only the start. If you’ve got a problem, write it on a bit of paper, shove it up yer arse and shimmy down his chimney. The dawning of the age of Lightning is here.
The 2015 30 man (naw sorry….PERSON) over the top rope SQUARE GO
Made an absolute pigs dick of this when I reviewed it last year, so this year it shall be split up into segments. With headings, and photos and all that good shiny shit all you fuckers eat up like ice cream oot yer partners navel.
Viper, DCT, Muay Thai Betrayals, and The Black King
DCT has always drawn me to him for some reason. Probably the raw sexual magnetism, and the reckless abandon with which he and Coach Trip slapped Viper about was a tiny wee bit erotic. Only if she wis intae it like. She seems like the type who likes a scrap, and she took a power of the crispest of scoop slams from entrants number one and number three. Polo promotions loyal. Nae need tae kick her roon the face though guys. Its a damn shame that ye felt like ye had to go that route. She needed a hero. She needed the Thai to the Tash. The camera guy. The extra bendy guy. Adam Carrell.
In he came like a bat outta saved by the bell. Kicking fuck out of Coach Trip for his blatant disregard for the safety of the fairer sex. He met his fellow SWA tag champion in the middle of the ring and they seemed to form an alliance. An alliance to Polo Promotions means you’re about to get cracked in the baws and chucked oot the Square Go. Sorry Adam mate. Never trust a man who places scoop slams over the safety of human females. In came Euan G Mackie to get a mild doing, while Viper dwelled in the corner nursing a fat lip and a sweet kaboose. Speaking of fine rear ends, every single one of them in that ring was about to get theirs toed. Aw fuck. Here’s the big yin. Nathan Black is here, to fill yer arse full of fear. And yer crotch full of gear. So when the sniffer dugs come, they sneer, before they mangle yer business. Oh dear.
Aye so. Nathan Black eh.
Out went DCT and Trip. DCT is a smart man. A villain and a deviant, but he needs tae know that when a guy is 6 foot 9, and at least 20 stone, you cannot scoop slam that man. He will toss you tae fuck, and chokeslam yer pal before tossing you to fuck. He’ll enjoy doing that while Euan G Mackie pulls the strings and makes the tower of evil dance. Viper gave it a go, but she was unceremoniously dumped out soon after, and aw naw. Not my boy. Not David Devlin. Not Yum Yum. Not like this.
In he went. A silly move, but he fought with all he had. He kicked the snotters clean out of Euan G Mackie before being fallaway slammed into the Abyss (get it? cause Nathan Blacks kinda like Abyss fae TNA? nah??? sound) The only man who could take him out was a King. A king is what you need to overthrow a monster and his puppetmaster. A king of fixing up, and looking sharp. That disnae just mean wearing courful jeans and winking at the ladies to make them fall in love wae ye. Nah does it fuck. That means DUMPING NATHAN BLACK AND EUAN G MACKIE OUT THE SQUARE GO BY JUMPING THEM FROM BEHIND. Lou King Sharp had arrived on the ICW stage. I couldnae hear myself wank for the noise.
Sometimes ye get chokeslammed for being cheeky anaw. Nathan Black and Euan didnae take too kindly to being jumped and papped oot and they unleashed the fury, until the holy one emerged. Now I’ll tell ye nae lies, I was never really intae David The Beloved before this night. I didn’t get the direction the character was going in, but its finally fell into place. One of the main things I had a bit of a problem with in ICW, and they fuckin fixed it, cause out he came. Not even in the match. The voice of reason. Come to the light Nathan. Only use your strength to further our cause. There will be other days. The ICW Title will be ours if we share our talents and keep chucking wee pricks towards the sun. Walk into the light with me Nathan.
Nathan chose to leave Lou after a few chokeslams and some weird snarling that lead to him spittin aw err the poor cunt, but to the cry of “I’M NOT DEAD YET” Lou King Sharp rose to his feet. And was greeted with the Polo Promotions Patriarch. Captain Jack himself. The Polo Lounge was BACK for one night only and Scotlands BEEEEEST wrestler would host the boy wae the big bastardin baws for this one off special. Little did he know he was playing host to Lou King Sharps arrival, and he didnae need any bold announcements. He announced it himself, with that bulging sack of courage that dwells in his skinnies.
Lou King Sharps arrival, Polo/Hearto, Carmel, Layla…Jack
Polo came in quite the bold yin. As you’d expect. Looking upon Lou like he wis a bit of shite on his perfectly tied classic wrestling boots, made for wrestling. He heartily scoop slammed Lou a few times before Lionheart emerged from the shadows to capture his attention with an icy glare, and a wee distant tickle of the bawsack. Suitably distracted, Jackie Polo found himself papped out by Lou King Sharp, and all of a sudden the brawl was on. Barramania. Polo vs Hearto. Get yer tickets NOW from whichever living soul might sell ye one cause that shit is sold out. Here’s a wee staredown from their shoot interview I missed trotting aboot Glesga looking for my pal.
While they were throwing hands, Carmel came into the Square Go to slap wee Lou aboot the jaw. She never really tried to pap him out though, instead chuckling as his weak slaps as she awaited the arrival of fellow scary as fuck burd. Her fae Switzerland. Or Europe somewhere. The burd that bursts the other burds, and the burd I’m ever so slightly in love wae. Layla Rose. They got daft though. They got sloppy as fuck, loitered near the ropes whilst leaving Lou to fully recover from that suplex Carmel gave him to toss them both the fuck out. 5 eliminations for Lou King Sharp. 5 AND COUNTING, cause yer boy’s still in there. Next up. The Grappler who was so nearly The Iron Grappler. Jack Gall. In ye come. Welcome to the Zero-G Showcase.
The Zero-G Showcase
With the entrance of the bollocks came the entrance of the Zero-G showcase. All of yer finest from Spacebaws and the outer Spacebaws. Spacebaws we’ve not even explored yet. All going at it for the shot at the big one. Kenny came in and kicked Jack Gall about, before getting in amongst the various flippy things he does better than anyone in the world. Lou King Sharps his pal ye see, and Jack Gallagher had just spent the past 2 minutes putting him in al sorts of ill advised, time draining submissions just for the fuck of it. Not on. If you’re entering the Zero-G Showcast you need to play by the Zero-G Champions rules. Rule number one. Don’t hit Kennys pals. Only Kenny can do that, and he most certainly did do that as he hit both Jack and Lou with a dropkick each, following that up with a tandem Bulldog/Clothesline thing. I’m no entirely sure what it was, but it was like candy on a stick. Like cider over ice. Like a cheeseburger inside another cheeseburger. It was other worldly my man. The action stayed pacey as fuck when Solar entered to hit all sorts of high flying shit. Combining with Kenny Williams to paint hunners of wee lovely pictures with combinations of wrestling moves and interpretative dance. But their wee wrestling picture party was broke up by a cuttla GATECRASHERS.
I’d just like to state for the record, I do not support this campaign to tar Dave Conrad with the “shite Martin Smith” brush, cause Big Dave’s a unit. And he’s probably got an income. Two things I don’t have going for me. He also has the ability to grow thick, luscious hair on his dome which is the one thing besides satisfying a woman that I most certainly cannot do, and…eh. He also helped Christopher Saynt pap Solar oot the Square Go. He’s doing a bunch of things I’m not, I guess would be the central thesis here. That brought the Zero-G Showcast to a close. Well that didnae. This did.
Mikey Whiplash is haunted
Evening Mikey. We’ve been expecting you. Take a look at your new favourite for the 2015 Square Go. Look at that figure and tell me its not custom built to throw cunts over the top rope. He’s won it once already, and he has a bunch of folk in the ring that (Conrad aside) probably weigh less combined than he does. A true tank in every sense of the word. Built for war. Disnae matter if you’re his Fierce Females GM, or just some dafty he trained a wee bit once upon a time. It was all over for the whole fuckin lot of them. As Kenny Williams ran for cover, The Gatecrashers saw their time in the Square Go brought to an end. Conrad tossed out first, followed by the man Whiplash asks to oversee the in-ring action at his very own promotion. Not giving a flying fuck. If you’re in the way, out you go. He gorilla pressed Lou King Sharp over his head only for Kenny Williams to aim an ill advised barrage at him to unshackle his pal from the clutches of the haunted one. He continued to keep the crowd eating out the palm of his thumbtack laden palm, as he went to war with an old foe in Jack Gallagher, but it was time for a wee look at the dark horse. Lewis Girvan. Quintessential pro wrestler, part time Drew Galloway impersonator, full time mad bastard. Immediately tanning Whiplash in the baws as he entered before attempting to sling Lou King Sharp out, only for the wee cunt to bounce back once again, like a schemey Rey Mysterio oan blues. There was just nae shiftin this cunt.
Whiplash continued to batter cunts with reckless disregard for the safety of them and their abdomen. Even the thunderous reception yer man Davey Boy got thanks tae a rousing intro fae the wee man, didnae stop him getting torture racked off Whiplash, but Mikey Whiplash is haunted. The face paint, the bodybag, the screams that he’s found redemption are nothing. A hollow shout to the dark. Whatever the video was that played and whoever was responsible for it does not matter. If Mikey Whiplash wasn’t haunted by the ghosts of wrestling past, a video of his former self wouldn’t have affected him, but the demons are there. They gnaw away at his mortal soul. He sees the blood. He sees the bodies hit the floor. He seen Jack Jesters life in his hands and he smiled. He took Kay Lee Ray, lifted her above his head and chucked her to her certain demise. He made Grado find his baws. He used to be something a touch more murderous than the version of him we see right now, and with a Legion behind him or not, a Legion cant help you outrun your demons. Lewis Girvan would take advantage of the distraction and dump the former champion out. Reflect on your past since indiscretions as you traipse backstage aw despondent. Always remember. Mikey screwed Mikey. When the dark soul behind that video makes himself known, be prepared to eradicate it or see this wee ICW resurgence end.
The Better Together Administration, Kid Fite’s heel singlet, Grado
Look at the smug bastards. They had us all. Should have known the second I seen Kid Fite emerge as Number 20 and immediately burst his knee coming off the top rope. He had the red singlet on eh. Red means heel. Its Kid Fite’s heel singlet, cause he goes RED ROSS and knocks fuck outta cunts. He appeared to exit the Square Go with a wee sare knee, some of his ex pupils making sure he was awrite, and that the paramedics managed to put his knee on ice before it dies, or whitever the fuck ye dae for a sare leg. I dunno. I’m no a doctor mate. I’m the cunt that writes the overly wordy reviews and spends hauf his life telling ye how good they are, and why they should make ye employ him for this services, but I cannae dae that unless I inform ye as to what happened for the rest of the match, so we’ll fire in wae that shall we? Aye sound. Glad that’s awrite wae ye.
The dirty fuckin bastards. In came Sha Samuels (interview coming soon on Snapnexxx.com…once I send him the questions…sorry big yin) with the Leather Strap to welp the living bejaysus out of everycunt. Girvan. Williams, Davey Boy, our Lou. All laid out. After 30 minutes of cool resistance, Lou King Sharp was papped out. Hang on a fuckin minute. There’s fuckery afoot. Timm Wylie entered with a James R Kennedy wearing a suit made of dollar bills, woven with the tears of Ethiopian refugees, as he looked upon the dangerous alliance forming. A tank like Timm, and a smasher like Sha joining forces. Fuck sake. Girvan was tossed out not long after Davey Boy had been double clotheslined to his certain death. Or at least a sare dunt on the other side when he lands. Martin Kirby was next to join the union of evils. Better to-fucking-gether they call themselves the bastards. No doubt Martin Stone will be involved somewhere, but for the name to make sense, it needs at least one Scottish Wrestler. Especially when they fell flat on their dicks trying to bring another Englishman into the folk, as Jack Gallagher told them to sook his ginger boaby. They battered and papped him out for his cheek, and with Kenny a sitting duck, he needed an old ally. One half of the one night only dream squad. Team Irn Bollocks. ITS THE MAN. THE MYSTERY. THE SELF STYled SHIMMYER. THE FUCKIN…GUY RUNNIN ABOOT WAE A HAGGIS IN HIS BUMBAG. GRAAAAAAADO
Grado. Fito’s singlet makes sense. Sacrifices.
Ye ever seen a guy chuck a Haggis at another guys baws? That is the very question. This is a live action shot of Grado tossing a Haggis towards Sha Samuels chirlies, and it landed square on that baws that produced they two brat kids, that were conceived after he pumped fuck out of his nagging wife, before shooting on the whole family on TNA British Bootcamp. Nae mare brat weans for you Sha ma man, but the numbers were still in the unholy alliances favour, so it was fairly handy for Grado when Kid Fite came back into the picture to make it tree Jocks against three slices of Saxon scum. FREEEEDOM and aw that bollocks.
Divers showed the tactical nouse that earned him the nickname “the most tactically sound man named Dickie in pro wrestling today” by slotting in at the commentary booth and waiting until all this unpleasantness has blown over. Or in Grados case clotheslined on his arse, as he helped Kid Fite to his feet, only for Fito to knock him off his with a short armed lariat. He was the missing piece. The Scot with no honour that turned his back on his people and his blue singlet to tear down a Scottish hero. Red singlet Fito is a bad yin, have a wee look at that photie up there and tell me im wrong. Grado was unceremoniously dumped the fuck out by Sha and Timm Wylie and they both followed him to the back to batter a few more lumps out of his charismatic wee jiggly chest. Fuckin shocking behaviour man. Kenny Williams somehow managed to stick about in the midst of this and even managed to belt a few dropkicks in the general direction of Kirby and Fito. Before the saviour made himself known. Global or local. In the ring, or singing his way into your hearts. THE DREAM STILL LIVES. TAKING HOME BOTH THE TITLES COULD STILL HAPPEN. HERE COMES MMMMMMMMGMHMGMH JOE HENDRAY.
Global Hero finds his Bollocks, Damo, Not enough Coffey
Fallaway slam for Fito. Quiff Buster for Kirby. An alliance that was once grudging how has nothing but palship as its core, as everyone went fucking daft for the man that Kenny thought he’d retired. Back from being a memory, to make more memories. He wanted that title and he wisnae gonnae let any any turncoat bastards, or wee baldy guys that are heavy good at fly kicks stop him getting what he needed. He even welcomed a new potential ally in STEVIE BOY. As the other half of the Buckie tanning twosome was given the grandest of entrances fae The Wee Man. Whitever your guy is daein 2000 grams of paracetemol for, Stevie Boy will dae it hauf price and he’ll throw in an eccie for yer business. His arrival sparked Divers intae action after giving me the vickies not long before, but he seemed unaware that Stevie’s weapon of choice was a solid steel frying pan oota Lidl. A few leatherings for Divers as he tumbled round the ring, having a wee song sung to him by aw the cartoon tweety birds flying roon his napper, as another major player entered at a more than favourable number. Yer number 28. THE REAL DEAL. Mark Coffey.
Coffey back suplexed everycunt with a pulse and a name worth uttering, even catching Kenny Williams with a beauty of a back suplex as he reversed his flying back elbow attempt. Stevie Boy had previously been ko’d by his own weapon of mass tottie scone destruction (oh my fuck, ye can tell I’ve been at this aw night, the jokes are getting worse as it goes) as Joe Hendry ducked his attack and he saw the utensil belt him between the eyes. If Joe Hendry wis gonnae stay alive he had to stayed connected to his unlikely allies. At this point that was Kenny Williams and probably Stevie Boy a wee bit, but he needed more. To stay alive in this match he would have to form a bond with a man whos hatred for him pushed him to take on the image of a human bear and go about fly kicking cunts in the face. The man who built his reputation on the many jaw scudding he gave his former protege and the current favourite to win the Square Go considering the fact that he would be one of the last two entrants, and he’s fucking huge. BIG DAMO.
Big Damo and The Steel Chair
Fuckin Big Damo is a menacing enough prospect, but wielding a steel chair? Nut. Stevie Boy was the first victim after the steel chair sent the whole lot the cunts in that ring scattered like bowling pins. Next out was Mark Coffey. Bringing an ent to his all too brief spell in the match. The Square Go was a 10 out of 10 show, but the only thing that could have improved it a touch wis a wee bit more Mark Coffey. And maybe a bouncer feeds ye free candy floss while he tickles yer baws anaw. I don’t know mate. Widnae be surprised if the dazzling O2 ABC offered such a service, with their stellar reputation for customer service. Either way, James R Kennedy came down to the ring and encouraged two of his new charges to get tae fuck out. This isnae your fight troops. The Better Together Clan will have better days. For now we settle for Grado sitting on the mantelpiece, and after some confusion with Kid Fito going out through the middle rope, it was confirmed that Martin Kirby and Kid Fite were oot. Leaving one entrant to go, and only three left after Damo chucked Kenny Williams to fuck. I might have got the order of the exits a wee bit messed up there, but all they cunts went out so we were down to our final four.
The Final Four. I am my brothers keeper.
Its a weird thing to compare Bobby Roberts to Rey Mysterio, in the same article where you compare Lou King Sharp to the very same latin bundle of magic, but it was true here. Everyone wanted Renfrew, some wanted Paul London, some wanted Jack Jester, a few even screamed for Jamie Feerick, and a smidgen of cunts even held out hope the entrant number 30 would be the return of Christopher. With the greatest of respects to the man who did emerge, to no fault of his own much like Rey Mysterio when he entered at number 30 in the 2014 Royal Rumble whilst everycunt was shouting for Daniel Bryan. No one wanted to see Bobby Roberts at that moment, and most folk drew in a collective sigh of relief when he was jumped from behind by a mysterious figure. A man once part of a tight unit but currently walks alone. A man we haven’t seen for…I dunno, at least 2 hours. He grabbed the mic, showed us his face, and let out an earth moving roar.
“DID YE THINK IT WAS GONNAE END LIKE THIS FOR ME? WITHOUT THAT ICW TITLE IN MY GRASP, FUCK THAT. I’M BACK AND I’M HERE TO TAKE OWNERSHIP OF WHAT’S RIGHTFULLY MINE…CARD….SUBJECT…..TO GRANGE!!!!!!!!”
It wisnae Grange that jumped him of course. It was Chris fuckin Renfrew, and his time was right now. Not the first time, but the second time. This was his second time and it was happening RIGHT NOW. Chris Renfrew will never not be Chris Renfrew. He’s just a version of Renfrew that people respect as a wrestler across the board. That respect means fuck all without that belt. CARD SUBJECT TO CHANGE. Big tens exchanged between him and Divers as they laid in the general sare area of Damo. This is when these 30 man over the top things are always at their best for me. The final four. The ones who get to write the final chapter. An unlikely alliance in Joe Hendry and Damo going face to face with brothers. NAK brethren and a pair well versed in combining their assortment of talents to knock fuck out of cunts. One of these four would win the 2015 Square Go. Would it be Chris Renfrew, previous winner and the man currently sniffing the rarefied air at the wrestling mountain top? Would it be the wonderboy Joe Hendry? The guy who got mic time on Monday Night RAW nae less, or would it be Big Damo. The powerhouse who was constructed in a warehouse somewhere off the motorway with the sole intention to be used as a battle royal winning machine covered in hair. Or would it be….eh. Would it be Divers? It surely couldnae…..
Renfrew slung Divers towards Hendry in the corner in the form of a running knee (best in the business at that yin is yer Divers), with Divers gently Hendry towards the Kiss Kiss of Mollys Lips (thats whit Renfrew calls his single leg missile dropkick) and Hendry was made aware he had no allies left when him and Damo shook hands before going on to uppercut each other intae near oblivion. Hendry is an extremely powerful man. Enough to lift a bear off his feet, and chuck him over his napper, but the effectiveness in the Fallaway Slam isnt with the ability to throw a man over your head, its the amount of momentum you can send with them as you throw. Any momentum you apply to Damo completely dies when you send him airborne unless he’s also applying some momentum himself. Nae momentum means he’s nae selling yer Fallaway Slam big yin, but hitting the DDT in response was a decent adjustment. If you can plant a big bastard like that on his napper. Fucking do it.
Hendry found another surprise collaborator as he heeded Divers advice to help him chuck the mastodon over the ropes. Nae boy. Double clothesline for the boys, and they both found themselves slung tae fuck. Hendry out. Divers probably gone too. Down to the final 2. Big Damo and Renfrew. Natural foes. Born enemies since way back in 2009. When the weight difference between them was in Renfrews favour. Now the manbeast (many fuckin nicknames have I gave Damo here? I keep forgetting them. This is whit happens when ye write for about 15 hours) Rolling Senton to Renfrew interrupted the NAK leaders attempts to pull Damo up by the hair. Divers might no be oot btw. Keep an eye on that. Well I will. Chest stand fae Damo anyway, followed by a running senton, but I still see ye lurking there Divers. Don’t even try n kid on yer not. Look at ye right here.
See! I can see yer heid keekin oot there ya chancer. Damo nudged Renfrew towards the ropes after the Ulster Plantation only for Divers tae dae a wee sneaky back in and pap the big yin oot. He truly is his brothers keeper. Took a big fucker of a lariat off the angry bear as Renfrew played dead in the corner and waited for the guy who might eat him tae go away. What a fucking trooper Dickie Divers is. A prince amongst scum. Still in the match and there to make sure Chris Renfrew spends another year wae a shiny briefcase terrorising whoever holds the ICW Title and making them fuckin wish they didnt. They stood toe to toe and Renfrew told his soldier to lay down his rifle and surrender. This war was not for individual to win. It was about the team. The NAK. It was about Chris Renfrew keeping the burning embers of his ICW title dream alive with one more shot at immortality. Divers agreed that it as for the best and prepared to pap himself the fuck oot. Muttering to himself the whole time “I am a good solider…I am my brothers keeper” over and over again, but Dickie Divers is a natural dickhead. Never ever let that fact escape ye. Ye will manipulate his enemies brain as much as all the semi obscure references in this review will manipulate yours. He decided “haud oan, fuck that, ahm Dickie fuckin Divers, and this might be my time, if yer gonnae win it this year yer gonnae need tae dae it legit, ya cheatin fuckin….”
“OH IS THAT HOW IT IS DIVERS AYE? FUCKIN DIEEEEEEE”
Never forget. You all popped. In the face of a guy who thinks you don’t matter, who betrayed his brother (who also thinks you don’t matter, but that’s not the point) and took a prize that he previously helped guard for a whole year. Out you fucking go Renfrew. No regard for the man who rescued him from obscurity after the aforementioned William Grange vanished and didnae give them the feud they so deserved. Maybe winning this Square Go was just reward for Dickie Divers after years of hard graft, and learning his craft. He’s the finished article in a lot of quirky ways. Unique style, and a naturally hateable coupo. After Renfrew hugged his brother and hit the Stoner, all ties were cut. When Renfrew inevitably dumped Divers over the ropes he would probably still be out of the NAK anyway, so what the fuck did he have to lose by winning the thing. After a failed attempt to toss Renfrew out on one side of the ring, Divers pulled the rope down on the other side and out went Chris Renfrew. Heart beating its last solemn beat as the leader of the NAK and the reluctant leader of the masses. Chris Renfrew will be different now. Chris Renfrew will turn his career crowning moment into a funny wee footnote on a long list of bodies he’s caught. No more NAK for Divers. No more Mr Sometimes Civil Guy for Chris Renfrew. The chaos is coming.
But does it look like Dickie Divers gives a fuck?
Not a fucking bit. There’s yer 2015 Square Go winner right there ladies n other living things. Dickie fuckin Divers.
Huge amount of credit to David J Wilson for the millions of photies I used of his. If you like them, find all of them on the ICW Facebook page, and give David a shout for any professional work you might need done. He’s very good and a gentleman to boot (heavy sooking cause his photies made this brilliant I reckon) Warrior Fight Photography for some fine snaps anaw, and of course ICW ON DEMAND of the screenshots. Sign up for that here
Cheers for reading the best shit I’ve ever wrote. Stay beautiful. Dont try n kill any of yer cousins, or put cunts through two tables. Those things hurt. If you like what I do and would like to see me continue do it through the ICW tour. Donate to the Patreon page here, and help me get to places like Sheffield and Birmingham. Mon. Ye know I’m good. Dae it.