ROCK N’ ROLL WRESTLING

Everybody loves violence on TV. I can’t get enough of it. In fact, I think there should be more of it, more blokes hitting other blokes, more chicks hitting other chicks, priests hitting rabbis, Romans hitting Carthaginians. As an equal opportunist I’m all for chicks in boxing, pillow fighting and wrestling in all of it’s purest forms, jelly and mud. If we can beat the crap out of each other hit why cant they as well. It’s only fair.

However, call me a traditionalist but I’m also a great believer that what happens in the ring stays in the ring. I yearn for the good old days when after a hard days wrestling you could go down to the local and have a beer with your greatest nemesis. Leo “The Cripple” Kastidis and I would have drink together even after I had administered my much feared Octopussy quadruple leg lock on his prosthetic limb.

It’s when ring rivalries spill out onto the street that tragedy can occur. I witnessed an example of this on Friday night. While having a quiet beer with some mates down Houndsditch way the peaceful serenity was shattered by a moment of madness. “The Brunette”, a two-time mud wrestling champion and former housewife had taken offense to the Drunk’s use of the Hippy Hippy Shake on her boyfriend. Enraged she unleashed a mighty tomahawk chop onto the Drunk’s head but unbeknownst to us all was the glass she had concealed in her hand. The Drunk reeled away her head a bloody mess.

Girls glassing other girls. Welcome to London.

Listening to Peter Bjorn & John – Writers Block

THEY CALL HIM FLIPPER!

My recollections of the visits my family made to the beach mainly revolve around my father with his pants rolled up to his knees smoking a cigarette never getting more than knee deep into the surf. So imagine my surprise when some Korean fella won the 400m freestyle beating into third our very own Grant Hackett.

The most impressive thing is that he beat Hackett with his pants rolled up to his knees while smoking a cigarette in one hand and holding his loafers in the other.

I WOULDN’T PISS ON HIM IF HE WAS ON FIRE!

Brixton Academy, The Arcade Fire so what could go wrong? Nothing. Talk about bloody ruddy bloody brilliant. I watched in awe with thousands of other moody angst filled blokes nodding as one to the rocking tunes. Don’t girls like good music?

I told myself I wouldn’t say it but bugger it. They’re even better live.

P.S. Have to stop drinking soju. My head hurts.

I KNOW NUFFINK!

Dazel had to be Colonel Klink by default as I have marginally more hair that him. Well okay, I have a full head of hair and he’d be struggling to weave a wig for a kewpie doll.