Well, to the fighting, but still.
Anyway, after the despondency of Friday night, I woke up bright and early Saturday, realising why the jobs pages had made me feel so bleak. It’s not only the prospect of taking a giant step back into even worse employment – it’s the prospect of becoming the person I was at that point in my life! A person (if you can believe it) who was even more backward about coming forward, more mopey and had even less faith in herself! Ahh, and after the events that brought me out of my cocoon and transformed into a beautiful – well, purposeful – brightly-coloured – well, drably coloured – not a butterfly, perhaps, but maybe some sort of moth… a Beshemoth even! – Anyway, I do not want to go through the horrible reverse alchemies that would put me back in there. No indeed. So it was time to seize the day!
So I was up and about early and studying and cleaning while the Bossman had a lie-in (poor thing, he is even more chronically ill than I am, and it is more of a shame for he is larger and more robust, mainly) and while there is still no word from Kiltman, who had promised he would take the room and everything, there was a guy advertising as ‘Serial Killer seeks new hideout’ and did he sound perfect or what? So I messaged him last night and he replied immediately with his phone number. Yay! The situation might be saved! … unless they both want the room, which will be Awkward.
Of course, if the guy turns out to be an Actual serial killer, boy will my face be red – probably with my own blood – but I said as much to the Bossman and he said not to worry; ‘After all, Judge Death, who is possibly the bloodiest serial killer of all time, rented a room off Mrs Gunderson for many years and never killed her.’ Ah, it is a rare man indeed who can both find a relevant Judge Dredd quote and still portray things in a positive light.
And there was the frying of breakfast and the making of lunch and the cooking of a big curry for dinner and the washing of all the dishes, for the Bossman be a heavyweight fighter (when not ill) and needs feeding at approximately hourly intervals. And there was the hemming of curtains, with wonderweb and the iron, which I get out only in life or death situations, but sadly the Ikea best (read: cheapest) are cut to the sizes of the Elder Gods, and there was much swearing. During which, the Bossman helpfully informed me that if he had been told, he coulda brought his sewing machine and done it in half the time. Ah yes, the downside to going out with somebody competent – sometimes, they are more competent than yowwww.
Still, that’s the final curtain (up) and the DIY is at last complete! I can finally move on with my life! Just as soon as I have the linen cupboard contents all dried and tidied.
And then there was the trip to the cagefight! Woo for Saturday night being Fight Night!
I should probably, if I am going to gratuitously waste time blogging, get hold of a programme and notebook and blog the cagefights effectively, so at least there will be something of interest to someone in all this. However, that thought struck me as I took our beers to our seats, so maybe next time. The first few fights were over in round one; tragically, I chose to go out for a fag during a long hiatus that culminated in the only lassies’ fight that’s been at any of the events I’ve attended, bah. The Bossman assures me, however, that a) if I wasn’t a sad addict I woulda seen it, and b) at least it was an Epic match and not like the last one he saw, where the contestants literally sprang from their corners and baffed at each other with ineffectual overhands like bad actors. Indeed, the French competitor won no favours with the crowd by putting in illegal head-kicks while her opponent was on the floor, but the Scottish lassie carried the day so all was good. Except, I missed it. Balls.
I was kinda asleep on my feet by the end, which was a shame cos there was some good fighting going on. I bet if I had been carrying a notebook, I woulda felt compelled to stay awake. However, we ran outa there at the end and made it to the train with one minute to spare… tragically, the train time had been brought forward by two minutes. Ahaha, Scotrail, very funny.
Sunday, the Bossman needed even more kip, so I crept around being productive in quiet ways. On awaking, he complained that this was Not Necessary, since he is ‘not a fragile sleeper’, (which makes his complaints at the end of the night regarding the 5.30 alarm rather ironic), and said I shoulda just breezed into the room and bottled off all the tattie wine.
Which brought us to the interesting question – which of the vats was the tattie wine (stopped, and therefore safe for bottling without exploding) and which was the rosehip (not stopped?) The Bossman had to help taste-test from his sickbed, but this was not aided by the fact that neither of them taste like potatoes. One, in fact, is a rather passable dessert-style wine – if not anything of a vintage to write home about, certainly one that can be Swilled with gusto. I think, it is the tattie wine. So I bottled that.
And then boiled up kilos of honey and spices and cherries to start six gallons of mead.
And with that, it was off out to the fighting for the second night in a row – this time, ICW at the Garage. Ooh, I have never been to the Wrastling! I mean, I have seen it on the telly as a kid. With hindsight, it did take a while longer than it shoulda for it to sink in that this was more of a performance spectacle than a real Thing – rather more chairs to the back of the head by dwarves hidden under the ring while the ref was looking the other way, for example.
I was unsure what to make of being at the Wrastling – we were not safely back in the anonymity of the cheap seats, for one thing, but in the Thick of things, and I was worried the crowd would be chavvy (nothing wrong with that, it’s just I stick out like a sore thumb in those cases, and in Mobbenings, this bodes ill). Also, it was televised, and we were perilously close to the front, I felt a cold coming on, and had dressed conservatively. ‘Middle-aged-harpy-inna-fleece’ does not go over well on the goggle-box.
However, my fears were somewhat assuaged when Red Lightning took the floor against Johnny Moss for the first bout. There was booing and hissing and cheering and the obligatory battered chair to the back of the head and I started to relax and get into it. It’s much like the panto, right? there’s a Story going on (and I love stories) and you boo the villains and cheer the heroes, it’s all very therapeutic, and we were close enough to actually see (being opposite the cameras) the nodding and winking that went on when coordinating moves. It were as good as Backstage during conjuring!
True, I was a bit alarmed when the three-way between Lionheart, Kid Fite and Wolfgang resulted in Kid Fite getting his balls out and putting them in his prone opponent’s mouth – ha, and I’d been all ‘”teabagged?” on telly? I don’t think that word means what – oh. It does. JESUS what is going on here tonight?’
Well, that gratuitous bout of homoerotica aside – and it’s not something I’m in any way against, on principle – there was more alarm on my part when the awesome Psycho Dalek played the halftime gig and I was accidentally right at the front, still in me middle-aged-harpy clothes, so I desperately backed away from the cameras (and the volume, hello, I has audio-typing tomorrow morning!)… but we ended up accidentally at the front for the second half, and even with the telly rolling, I was now well into it. Ah hell, I gotta respect the amount of work that must go into making this look Good! And whereas a cagefight may be a thing of beauty for the ages, or a ‘what the fuck I didn’t even see what happened there’ – and that in itself is a thing of beauty; but after a hard week’s work, I can kick back and appreciate a good, old-fashioned Tale.
Especially one where a trio of chavs called the Bucky Boys – with their camp follower Lambrini – take on the hired muscle of a villian. Or where there’s a six-man knock-out brawl involving a midget*, followed by a tag-team match between two wee lassies in fabulous outfits, versus a giant guy dressed in a saucy schoolgirl outfit (he did a striptease halfway through, to wails of horror from the guys around me, hee hee) who was backed by a lassie dressed as a dominatrix/ school marm**. Truly, I had no idea who to cheer for, I loved both teams so much.
(Although I will say, I think they need to hire more than one Evil Girlfriend – poor lassie had to play the Evil Girlfriend to two different villains.)
*(Andy Wild Vs. Christopher W/James R. Kennedy Vs. Scott Maverick Vs. Liam Thomson Vs. Johnny Starr Vs. T.J Rage W/Charles Boddington. I have no idea which of these was The Wee Man, my bad).
**(Carmel & Kaylee Ray Vs. Mikey Whiplash W/Lolita)
But it was the finale that was the most awesomeness ever. B T Gunn vs Jack Jester, for a Belt. They fought quite solidly at first, but when the Jester threw down a bandana full of drawing pins in the ring, and they took turns throwing each other into them, I was more than impressed. No matter how you practice, that’s pretty hardcore, right?
And then the fight went out of the ring and up and down the bar, cameras and stewards trailing it, went into the test-your-strength machine with somebody’s head, and then back into the ring and up and down the drawing pins some more. And then, Jester got B T Gunn over the ropes and did something to his face with an outsized corkscrew, and suddenly there was blood everywhere.
Now, I had seen Jester faffing with something and assumed the blood was fake, but when I saw this wound pulsing out blood in B T Gunn’s forehead, I realised I had put too much faith in special effects. (The Bossman assured me that what I’d actually seen was Jester getting a razorblade out of the bandages round his wrist, and that this was all done by prior arrangement, but I had thought the hairline might be a better place? Maybe he missed.)
Anyway, that really is suffering for your art. I thought the drawing pins were hardcore! I was not prepared! And the fight came out of the ring on our side, and went up to the balcony, whereupon there was somewhat of a scrum as everyone, myself included, tried to get their drinks clear of the drop zone. God, we’re animals. In my defence, I let a big guy with two pints to lose get away in my place; but it was only when all these guys rushed in to take the fall on top of them that I realised I probably should have done that.
(‘Don’t be stupid,’ said the Bossman,’ did you not realise those are the stewards and they have trained for this?’
And Jester threw B T Gunn off the balcony and he missed my pint by an INCH and the Bossman helped catch him and got covered in his blood (and spent the rest of the evening taking photos of his bloodied hand with his new camera). And I was punched in the head by some wee nyaff trying to get a photo of all the blood on his phone. And B T Gunn was declared the winner regardless, and Jester helped hold him up in the ring to accept his accolades as the crowd went wild, and then B T Gunn slipped or staggered or something as he was leaving the ring, and Jester was watching him anxiously and totally dived out and carried him off backstage and it was the sweetest and most awesome thing ever.
I love the Wrastling. But damn, if the next event can beat that for awesomeness!
In conclusion: here is footage of B T Gunn not quite falling in my pint.