Six weeks in a fuckin row ICW. Really? I cannae dae it. It’s too much. Yees dae realise how much these shows suck the life out of people eh? If you’re a living breathing human, and you’ve been to ICW on a Sunday…the Monday after is not gonnae be pretty. Even if you don’t drink/partake in any other forms of intoxication, it’s still gonnae be a weary day. Making us do this 6 WEEKS IN A ROW(7 weeks out of 8 if ye were in London) is just cruelty. Intolerable cruelty. Or it would be if this wasn’t the best indie wrestling company in the fuckin world, and we weren’t all wrestling daft. Lets fuckin do it. Leg 2 of the big 6 week, jaw scuddin, arse booting, back cracking, bottle smashing err yer fuckin heid extravaganza. The Fringe run. Colt Cabana. The ICW roster. Burning Edinburgh to the ground. Figuratively like, but if a small fire breaks out somewhere, I wouldnae be surprised. Hopefully its somewhere in the vicinity of Tynecastle. Anyway. Wrestling show. No a lot announced for it so this will likely be havering nonsense. Lets do it. Shall we? Continue reading
Come on over tae our place. AYE YOU! We’re having a party. Jabs be stingin, and steel chairs swinging, baby come on over tae mine….. And so on and so forth. Aye thats right, starting off a preview for a wrestling show wae a parody of Come on Over To My Place, cause this is not yer average wrestling show. Nor it is yer average house party. It’s a wicked combination of both. A house party with wrestling matches, wrestling angles progressing in various ways, wrestling merchandise being procured, wrestling booze being consumed, wrestling burds being felt up, wrestling swedgers being gubbed in the toilets, wrestling ketamine being stu…well ye get the point. Wrestling things. Perty things. All rolled intae one. This is ICWs second consecutive sell out at the 02 ABC, but because they were allowed to shift a few more tickets than last time, it’s officially ICWS BIGGEST crowd. The biggest thing happening in Glesga this weekend, cause fuck cycling, and fuck swimming, and fuck The Chris Hoy Velodrome, and fuck Celtic Park (only kiddin) and fuck everything that isnae happening at the ABC on Sunday. Everything. Toon better no be fuckin heaving wae commonwealth games punters man. I don’t want tae be superman punching Samoan tourists cause they’re dawdling and making me late for my bus, knahmean? It seems exhausting and we’ll all be needin all the energy we can muster tae make it through what’s sure to be a stoater of a show.
Thank fuck for the abject fickleness of modern technology eh. Cause without the hard camera at PROGRESS – Chapter 13 failing, we wouldn’t have been given the gift of seeing the show for fuck all. It says a lot about the dedication to the fanbase that the owners have that they deemed this unfit to charge any money for, cause let me let ye in on a wee secret troops. They absolutely could have charged money for this. Hard camera or not, this is easily one of the most complete wrestling shows I’ve seen all year. To the point that if I had run it, and all I had from it was a few blurry polaroids and a tape recording of Rampage Brown screaming “WRESTLING!” into a tin can, I’d charge a fee for folk just to have the privilege of being exposed to that. If you like indie promotions with a commitment to storytelling and building its own stars as opposed to relying on imports to shift tickets…PROGRESS has all of those things.
“Tell us the whole fuckin story!”
The line which started the evenings festivities off would become the unachievable goal. How the fuck can ye put the events of that show intae words that accurately depict the organised chaos that unfolded? Ye just cannae. I’ll dae my fuckin best, don’t get me wrang, but it aw went by in a beautiful haze tae me. I don’t think anyone in that building on Sunday night wisnae utterly gripped by fuckin….everything. Every wrestling show I’ve seen until last night had some sort of lull. Even if its brief, there’s ALWAYS somethin that makes ye think “wish they’d hurry this up” but that lull didnae exist on Sunday night. All that existed was a permanent rush, and people occasionally collapsing wae pish runnin doon their legs in excitement/shock/abject horror. Wrestling is beautiful. Wrestling should be yer happy place. If it isnae…make it yer happy place. Make ICW and Scottish Wrestling in general yer happy place.
The evening began wae a quick brief from ICWs top brass. The guys in black suits that’ve swung mare golf clubs at baws than Tiger Woods. ICW owner Mark Dallas, his chief lieutenant Chris Conscience, Sweeney and various other hired killers. One of the men in the ring was former ICW roster member and resident ‘bag ah washin’ Jamie Feerick, who was there tae plead for a return to the fold, and was swiftly bounced oot the ring by Sweeney, flung wae such venom that he when he stood up he found himself at the bar in Box orderin himsell a Jackie Polo tae calm doon. The main point in the whole saga was for Dallas tae reveal that ICW will be running shows at Studio 24 in Edinburgh EVERY FUCKIN SUNDAY during the fringe, meaning along wae getting tae see aw yer usual homegrown talents, ye get a weekly fix of a certain Mr Cabana. I’d imagine a lot of Glaswegian kidneys will be going on the black market around that time cause we’ll aw be in dire need of cash if we’re moving tae Edinburgh, unless somecunts got a mile long couch we can aw kip on.
Aye so…after that there happened tae be a wrestling show, and it was a wee bit special