It’s a street just like any other.
Any other in Britain, that is.
Yes this week we have returned to Johnny Brown’s homeland.
GREAT Britain.
As Johnny walks down the middle of the road a few people mill around. Kids kick a ball around and a man hoses his front lawn; despite the hose pipe ban.
A postman stops to listen as Johnny begins to talk.
JB: The momentum is building. A fever is sweeping the nation. Johnny Brown is coming home.
A couple of rosy-cheeked rascals fall in line Johnny as he continues his tirade, the friends soon follow suit.
JB: My people have faith in me, even if I hate all of them. They all live vicariously through me, their nothing lives will be validated when I win at London’s Brawling. Their misbegotten sad squalid existence will have a ray of light. Drunks will stop beating their wives and kids as the live their dream
Steadily others join the kids; men, women and more children march along, their faces proud with national pride. The army begins to form.
JB: Do you feel it?! The whole U.K. wants Aleksei Koji to lose. Not just England but the whole U.K. Even the Welsh, the Scots and the Irish want this, not the Southern Irish they’re crazy. Who wants you to win? The SCW office? Their opinions and a quid will get you a 99p burger and a penny change?
Like rats following the pied piper they come thick and fast. From houses and flats, people abandon their cars to join the precession. People at phone boxes drop the receiver to fall in line. Some don’t even know why but they feel the emotion in the crowd.
JB: Your time in S-C-Dub will be over before it’s begun. The Albert Hall will not be able to contain the violence I have planned for you. Blood will flow like a geyser, your scarred up carcass will be shredded
.
Every inch of your 255lb bulk will ache; as me E.D.L. will rock you to ya core. When you are so busy you have nothing left I will drag ya up an’ hit ya again.
Rope a dope may have been first used nearly forty years ago but it’s due for a comeback. You need a lot of gas in ya tank to carry that bulk around, where as I’m a mean lean B.F.F. machine.
I’m gonna put ya through a London Marathon.
P’haps I shouldn’t be tellin’ ya my tactics, but hell I know it’s too late for you to match me step for step, hold fer hold.
You strike me as the sort of guy who’s never been accused of over-thinking stuff. The kinda of guy who didn’t have to try too hard ta stand out, cos of his natural ability… and I applaud that. Some people are born great, others like me; hafta work for it.
From a siding a brass band file in as the throng passes. The bass drum sets the pace, as the piccolo whistle over them. Two men in suits toss away their bowler hats and back flip across Johnny’s path. He doesn’t break step continuing his war cry.
JB: I’ve known ba$tards like you before, big ugly mental cases who scare others inta submission… that wont work on me. I’m not scared of a Romanian Captain Caveman. Your mono-brow and ape-like gait may scare those who once were sheltered by the Iron curtain but to a brash Brit ba$tard like me not so much.
I must admit we do have things in common. People like us, didn’t have a pot ta piss in or a window to throw it out of. A kid with hand-me-downs that Oxfam didn’t want. Mis-matching kit with holes around the nuts. People like me that have ta worked harder to get something.
Mummy an’ Daddy couldn’t send us ta Uni or buy us a car for our 18th. All we got was a clip around the ear an’ told ta stop whining.
The world owes you nothing, you may have earned what ya had but I’ve had enough of people coming to inta my world to strip it clean and take what should be mine back home wiv ya.
Don’t think these people are motivating me, or that I’m fighting fer them. I know not being loved will hurt you deep down. Ya care about the fans, care about how they perceive ya, do ya want to break the stereotype? Prove that Eastern Europeans are scroungers? Do ya want to be idolised to be revered as the Best of All.
I’ve been told ya are found of saying what ya do and don’t do… Well let me tell ya what you aint gonna do, you aint gonna win, yer gonna get beaten down like an old dog. You know that old mongrel that hangs by the side of the dirt track you call a road. The one that is forced to live on scraps, the one everyone wants to die just to ease its pain… you will wish that dog was you. You will look up from where I leave you laying and aspire to be that dog.
You’re a long way from yer homeland. Look around ya this is England!
Eng-Er-Land! Eng-Er-Land! Eng-Er-Land! Eng-Er-Land!
A poorly pronounced and very familiar chant spreads across the crowd like wildfire, or crabs across Essex. Ever patriotic, when a foreigner is in their midst, Johnny’s fellow Brits fall back to a chant normally heard across the terraces. The rabid fans are lost in the moment. If someone took a poll of those that could string a sentence together, most would probably have no idea why they were there. All they saw was the red, white and blue and saw the crowd. The poll would also revel 90% of those present read the Sun or the Star; with the remainder being unable to read. Such is Eng-Er-Land.
JB: Aleksei Koji how’s this for an entourage? I should be in the main event but I’m not. I’m stuck facing you in a nothing match. If I want to get back to where I need ta be I need to show them what I am capable of. When we stand nose to nose in the middle of MY ring… when the air crackles with electricity… when the whole arena rise to their feet ready to erupt there will only be you and me.
None of your beloved fans will be able to help me, just as none of your turnip eating family will be able to help you.
The time for talk will be over, my motor mouth will be silent. All we have is what god gave us and the skills we spent blood, sweat and some tears to develop. Do you have the substance to match your style? Are you ring skills as sharper than the rags you call clothes?
P’haps… but are you really as good as me?
SCW has yet to see what you can do, while I have only been here a few short weeks, so the advantage is yours. During my time here I kept my ring work limited for a moment like this, now I can show ya all just what I can do.
If by some miracle the Gods of luck favour you and a lightning bolt strikes me down allowing you to get the 1-2-3 your stock will sky rocket. Beating a Brit in front of his home crowd.
But fer you… if you lose to a loudmouth British with a pi$$ poor record what does that say about ya?
Will it reveal that you weren’t as good as yer claim, that you are not a big bad Bucharest brawler. That all along you were braggin’ cos when the chips are down ya can’t back it up?
Don’t get me wrong, you are good. Ya couldn’t get out of the hell hole that you called home without having some talent.
Our match is so close I bet ya can almost taste it… it’s almost a shame ya wont win.
Unlike our beloved Royals you wont be getting past a single match let alone a jubilee, congrats to Liz and Crazy ol’ Phil. Yer a diamond geezer, you would ‘ave me a hell of a wrestler, if just for yer unintentionally racist promos.
I digress, back to Aleksei Koji, the Romanian Rocky, Oh Romania…A gorgeous country... a pity it's inhabited.
Do ya think I’ll let you be the cock of the walk, well yer a cock…
… a ball bag, a bell end, a plonker, a muppet, a numpty, twat, tosser and wanker…
A pair of elephants enter the shot, one from each side. Johnny’s jaw drops in disbelief. He walks to the left, the crowd follows, he turns on his heels and turns to the right. Then turns to his followers.
JB: Will ya f*ckwits stop it! CUT! CUT! CUT! I KNEW THIS WAS A F’KING STUPID IDEA.
Why did I let the dipshit SCW office talk me inta this. “This is a big event” they said. “We need to go big, get the British market to buy in, please!” they begged.
How many times do I have ta say it I don’t care about the fans, even the British ones, I do this for me! If people want to buy my merch to support me, ill take the money, if they want ta buy tickets to see me get me arse kicked then let ‘em line up.
But this crap aint me, I aint no f’king sell out. I speak my mind, warts and all. All killer no filler, that’s me. Image may be everything to Nick Jones but I’m better than that; I’m better than HIM!.
A clichéd cap and headset wearing producer runs in. Snatches his cap off his head and tosses it to the floor, then jumps up and down on it.
Producer: No! No! No! This was supposed to be one long shot, now you’ve ruined it.
JB: This aint Cypress Ranch High School or Southpark, I don’t need dumbarse gimmicks and song an’ dance numbers, fer f*cks sake elephants and guys in bowler hats doing back flips. I get it ya wanted an analogy to Nick’s entourage. But I’m not in that match. Why did we need to use this crap?
Nick Jones greased the ref’s hands ta make sure he didn’t have ta face me. He hides behind his Entourage, he uses his influence to make sure things go his way.
Me an’ Stu having been watching each others back for as long as I remember, we’re mates cos that’s what we are.
Nick Jones is still my target… Aleksei is target practice. I hope he makes it to the show.
I pray to whatever god he worships that he doesn’t get hurt before than, that would leave me at a loose end… I will have nothing to do but to watch the main event VERY CLOSELY… from ringside.
Sorry Alek, right place at the wrong time.
Yer gonna get yer f’king head kicked in!
