Rise Of The Urchins

pick carefully..

The HOW doctor said I should throw myself into something I enjoy. To, you know… find myself a hobby. I mean, I’m a fifty five year old grown man the only alternative I have is fucking sudoku.

Tried golf; ended up becoming the second coming of Happy Gilmore. Expect Happy could put, and I couldn’t hit the ball for toffee.

Tired hockey; but I was like Bambi on ice. Fucking Irv from Cool Runnings was wrong about simply gripping with your toes.

Tried basketball; but if I’m completely honest, I’d of much rather of stayed in and watched cartoons with the son of the ring rat I’ve been fucking. Yeah, I’m really starting to make progress with him… he’s not called me dad yet or anything but there’s still time. I mean, I don’t get that from my actual son; can’t be arsed to see him, lives too far away. The bastard.

But just seems no matter whatever I chose to throw myself into there’s always passing traffic ready to mow my sick arse down. So I thought it’d be only appropriate for the sake of my own sanity to simply go back to.. *gulp*…. The Firm.

The Liverpool Urchins.

Feel that? Do you feel that chill down your spine? Well then shut the fucking window, get comfy under your Darin Zion blankey, and listen closely. Because it’s story time with Grandad.

And no, they’re not an orphanage from Merseyside; they’re a legit scary football firm who will do bad things to your sister. Well, that’s if your sister supports anyone other than the team in red. And if she doesn’t support The Reds.. which she shouldn’t, because she’s a woman. Then she’ll need to supply a lovely array of sandwiches at the firm’s next meeting. It’ll be her only reprieve from genuine stabbing.

I digress, I’ve always been a lifelong Liverpool fan. Yes, that’s football. And no, not the football you Yanks are used to where they predominantly use their hands. Proper football. Not.. *terrible American accent*… soccer.

It’s true, ever since I bungee jumped outside of my mothers beaver I was destined to be a Red. See, the majority of newborns are born with blood and mucous on them but my birth was different. Mother Jonny popped out a healthy twelve pound alpha baby in Jon Thomas Oliver (that’s me, by the way) out her vangeeta, with an LFC scarf already around its neck. And they tried parting me with it thinking it was the umbilical cord, but they’d of had to of fought me as The Iron Mike baby which they totally pussed out on. Because you see, Liverpool Football Club was in my very bloodline. And I was born to fight for this beautiful historic club.

Dating back to Jon Oliver Snr, his father, his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father. It probably goes back even further than that but I honestly don’t think football itself dates that far back. Football back then was probably kicking a raptor claw at somebody’s straw house.

Just if Lee asks.. I’m not a Liverpool fan. Fuck, the paranoia is starting again. If Lee starts to become suspicious and asks questions then I’m not even a football fan. I’m a beach volley ball kinda guy. That’s not even a lie though, because strictly between me and you, I sometimes fantasize that I’m living inside those hot pants whilst they’re playing… with my tongue out.

Now it was no coincidence Lee had tripped over me whilst I was outside begging in Manchester when attending a football game. To then sign me to a full HOW contract. I mean, come on.. out of all the places and all the towns; how could it be? But without going through all the stress and agony I put my mind through whilst trying to dissect the theory I’m just going to reveal it to you. Fuck, it was like trying to find Narnia inside my laundry basket. I was completely looking in all the wrong places. But I’ll reveal it to you later as it’s kind of messing with my story, see.

So, thing is.. Liverpool FC was strangely comparable to my pro wrestling career if I think about it. Liverpool truly dominated in the 80’s and ruled all of English football. And, in wrestling, when I was the most respected worker on the whole of the UK circuit it was due to my own dominance. Then, fast forward to when the 90’s and 2000’s came along and both wrestling and football had evolved. Myself and Liverpool had been left by the wayside. Yet when Liverpool concurred Europe merely only a few weeks ago and topped the mountain again, that’s exactly what happened at Refueled 4. There it was, poetic justice; Liverpool crowned Champions League winners, and I’m crowned winner of………………………. Darin Zion.

So ok, it doesn’t sound as sexy. I get that. But you can’t deny me of this blatant shift in momentum leading into War Games. Not even VAR can fuck me now.

So BOOM, here it is. New theory: Lee Best conspired to get me back into HOW. I pretty much know that to be fact. But it wasn’t just to fuck with me or to jab a ballpoint pen in my eye; it’s because I’m his pick. Always have been. He’s just got a funny way of showing it sometimes.

But Jon-boy what the fuck has this got to do with football I hear you ask? Well let’s go into extra time here and perhaps penalties if needs be, just so we’re crystal clear..

My true love has always been football. Even when pro wrestling had treated me like a two bob hooker, football had always been my crutch. Fucking wrestling, see, would often have a knack of Roy Keane two-footed-tackling my dodgy knee from behind. But when Liverpool conquered, I conquered. When Liverpool suffered, I suffered. We’re like two peas in a pod. Like Elliott and E.T. And that ugly little fuck is most definitely a Red.

Prior to ever getting involved in the wrestling business my old man would take me to Anfield and watch the men in red. First game, Super Terry McDermott dazzled against one of our biggest rivals; Manchester United… Lee’s team.

Conspiracy you say? Yeah, well, I’m glad you said because there’s too many of them flying about to actually make anything I say remotely believable anymore.

But don’t you fucking see?! Everything is leading back to the beautiful game. Football is what is binding me and Lee together. It is football that brought me and Lee together that fateful day in Manchester. It’s our past, present and could very well be our future. And if that day wasn’t a sign then it’s most definitely a message from GOD. He revealed himself to me, and most definitely.. a kick up the arse with a large Jesus sandal I simply cannot ignore.

A kick up the arse to not just tell Lee I need to be his one and only pick. But to show Lee. To show Lee how much his pick truly means to a small time girl.. living in a lonely world.

It’s pretty clear what I must do to GOD himself, and that’s seduce evil. And boy, it’s going to take a lot more than trying to serenade him. Standing outside of his window holding a stereo up over my head playing Damien Rice love songs simply won’t suffice. It’s gunna take more than buying some chocolates and a bouquet of roses, hand delivered or sent with violins playing. Because that’s not his style, see. Fuck, I’ve pretty much been in bed with him for the past fifteen years to actually know how the guy operates. Maybe not in body, but in spirit.

You see, Lee struggles to express his feelings. Which totally makes sense why he’s so darn coy all the time. Yet, very domineering. And some of the guys like that, but I’d rather fight fire with fire then to simply dress up like a helpless schoolgirl for him. What with War Games around the corner Lee simply needs a man that can fight for him and his affections. Somebody who truly cares and has the fucking passion, man.

As for me, well.. I need to be in a position to where my theory doesn’t ever get debunked. Right now, I need to be around my family. And I need my brotherhood more than ever. I need to be around a group of guys that can help prepare me for Lee. That can harden me in war. On the banks of Merseyside and away from home. And my family, my brotherhood.. has always been the firm and no one else. The Liverpool Urchins. They have a real grunty style, you know. Grunty.

So without a shadow of a doubt this match with Robert Dean isn’t just some throwaway match. This is my semi-final and I can’t celebrate prematurely because  Lee just needs to trust in the HOW old guard again. They have let him down and he must realize that I will not do the same. He can’t compare me to his ex’s.

Lee doesn’t need a lover. Lee just needs a friend.

Thing with me is, I’m like Barcelona’s very own Luis Suarez. Yeah sure, Messi will grab all of the headlines and pull all the plaudits. But I will just dig at your heels all afternoon. Breaking you down, I refuse to go quietly into the night. Fuck yes, you can bury me on your shows and have me curtain jerking for the rest of my life; it’s nothing I’m not used to. But that feeling man.. GHAD! Rushing through the veins. You can’t write it, copycat it, or gimmick it.

It’s like being on the terraces at Anfield on match day and hearing The Kop roar. The raw emotion that cannot be emulated or duplicated. And it’s that emotion that took over after my match against Darin Zion at Refueled 4. And it’s that exact same emotion that’s taking me to War Games.

You all saw the electricity at Refueled 4 and that’s something money can’t buy. You have either got it or you haven’t. And I think Lee gets that. I can see the twinkle in his eyes. Even if he is being really coy, there’s still that fucking fire we both share deep inside. And Lee, trust me, don’t ever let that go. Because it’s not over until it’s over and we’re winning on away goals.

INT – DOG AND GUN PUBLIC HOUSE – DAY

Inside the pub, filled with Liverpool FC memorabilia in the heart of Merseyside. Additionally, and definitely more predominately, the pub packed with a bunch of football hooligans going absolutely berserk.

WE’VE CONQUERED ALL OF EUROPE
WE’RE NEVER GUNNA STOP
FROM PARIS DOWN TO TURKEY
WE’VE WON THE FUCKING LOT

Jonny O’Dell steps inside of the doorway, sheepishly.

ALLEZ ALLEZ ALLEZ
ALLEZ ALLEZ ALLEZ

“BIG FUCKING JON?!”

The party atmosphere with the singing comes to an immediate stop. The gathered crowd separate to allow a face to match the irate voice.

A FREEZE FRAME on an elderly tattooed man. The scene mimicking that of Kill Bill except more shit.

Name: Keith Rowcroft
Age: 66
Occupation: Retired.
Strengths: Getting away with murder.
Weakness: Loves naps.

REFLECTION:
That’s Keith. Our almighty leader. He’s got more bodies living under his patio than worms. Looks like butter wouldn’t melt but he’d legit melt your face permanently.. with acid.

O’DELL: Hey Keith. Hey Urchins..

The sound of a bottle smashing and then an instant attack sparking from one of the punters. He gets on the back of O’Dell and puts the broken bottle to the side of his face. The two men twirl around like a modified airplane spin until..

FREEZE FRAME

On the face of the volatile short man on O’Dell’s back.

Name: Ratta
Age: 32
Occupation: Unemployed.
Strengths: Being a little cunt.
Weakness: Being a little cunt.

REFLECTION:
Ratta was Keith’s trusted right hand man. I couldn’t tell you why he trusted him so much.. after being named after a rat.

KEITH: RATTA!

Keith Rowcroft bangs a wooden cane off the top table. Ratta then releases his hold. O’Dell doesn’t retaliate as he knows he’s in the middle of the lion’s den.

KEITH: You got a lot of nerve showing your face here again.

O’DELL: Yeah, been a long time.

KEITH: The 1996 FA Cup final. Far too long..

O’DELL: Wow, has it really been that long?

KEITH: Don’t you fucking remember, Big Jon?! Well I’ll remind you, soft shite. You left me for fucking dead against the Manc scum.

O’DELL: Keith, honestly. I didn’t.

REFLECTION:
I honestly didn’t. I had a booking in the states but trying to convince these fuckers that that’s the truth then I might as well admit to actually leaving him to die. Which I’m not going to do.

You see, pro wrestling isn’t even cool to actual normal people. Never mind a bunch of murderous louts. Only a niche bunch of people would ever recall who I actually am, so its more painless to just play dumb. To them I’m not Jonny O’Dell. I’m only known as Big Jon.

KEITH: Fucking Bobby Sayers and his men did a number on me. And I’m plotting summit big for those Manc cunts.

Keith flicks his eyeball and it makes a distinct sound.

KEITH: Pure glass that is.

O’DELL: Look Keith, let me make it up to you. You and The Urchins. I want back in the firm.

KEITH: What do we think boys?

URCHINS (in unison):
HE’S ONLY A POOR LITTLE MANC
HIS CLOTHES TATTERED AND TORN
HE CAME FOR A FIGHT
SO WE SET HIM ALIGHT
AND NOW HE WONT COME ANYMORE

O’DELL: No!

The Urchins start to close in on a petrified Jonny O’Dell as the singing and behavior becomes unsavory to put it politely. For O’Dell, this could very well be the end. If he wanted a war then by god his dream is becoming a reality.

KEITH: URCHINS!

The Urchins stop closing in on O’Dell via Keith’s demand. Ratta looks the most pissed off as he was about to whack O’Dell with a snooker cue, but might not get that opportunity now.

KEITH: So listen. This is what’s going to go down. Jimmy Five Bellies will be on his.. *looks at watch* eighteenth pint by now. Probably devouring a mixed grill, too. And I want you to pay that fat Evertonian a visit. I want you to go down to The Percy Arms pub on the blue side of Merseyside and make a statement. That The Liverpool Urchins rise, and you.. Big Jon, my son. Are a fucking mad cunt.

The Urchins whisper amongst each other. This is probably the quietest they have ever been as the act Keith wishes O’Dell to conduct is the most dumbest thing imagined. Certain suicide.

EXT – PERCY ARMS PUBLIC HOUSE – DAY

The view of a ransacked public house. What Keith Rowcroft named The Percy Arms, plural. Well.. the ‘S’ is missing off the word ‘Arms’ from the overhead sign. Got ashtrays hanging off walls and a full boarded up window. But what seems more alarming is that the outside picnic table is bolted to the ground. This is a shady.. shady place.

REFLECTION:
I’m not going to lie, my arse is flapping with fear. I mean, who wouldn’t be? I’m a Red through and through and this is me on Blue turf. Our local rivals are Everton (The County Road Cutters) and they treat us worse than pedophiles round here. That’s how much the rivalry runs deep. But we are The Red Men and we are hated by all anyway.

There’s no dilemma here. I need to do a number on Jimmy Five Bellies to gain my respect back. If not, face a bigger arse kicking from The Urchins.

Now Jimmy Five Bellies didn’t chose football. Football chose him.. much like all of us. He was born into this way of life from his old man, Reggie. Who died from a heartache believe it or not. Now I have my reservations though, because knowing Keith then he’s probably in his freezer or something. But the fucking sickening thing is for me is that allegedly on Reggie’s bastard death bed his famous last words were: death to The Urchins.

INT. – PERCY ARMS PUBLIC HOUSE – EVENING

Total hostile takeover. The belligerent clang of about one hundred yobs fill the boozer. The infamous County Road Cutters were perhaps even more louder than The Reds were in The Dog and Gun previously.

OH WE HATE SHANKLY
AND WE HATE SAINT JOHN
BUT MOST OF ALL WE HATE BIG RON
AND WE’LL HANG THE KOPITES ONE BY ONE
ON THE BANKS OF THE ROYAL BLUE MERSEY

“RED SCUM!”

FREEZE FRAME

And there he is; Jimmy Five Bellies. Sat slumped on a bar stool commanding all of the respect inside of The Percy.

Name: Jimmy Five Bellies
Age: 46
Occupation: Truck driver
Strengths: Steering truck with his belly.
Weakness: Cardio

REFLECTION:
We all knew what this is. Jimmy knew just as much as I did. And for as rotten as the guy is.. he didn’t call murder. This was personal between me and him. I was an Urchin and Jimmy had his dads dying wish to follow through with. I may not have brought death on his old man personally, but that didn’t matter. I was wearing The Red colors.

Jimmy wastes no time by charging at O’Dell.

REFECTION:
Jimmy instantly caught me off guard with a belly attack. I say it was instant.. it took closer to ten whole minutes probably, but I might as well of signed my own death wish if I struck first. So I let him have the first one.

O’Dell bounces off a wall and he is immediately surrounded by a gang of goons like it’s something off of Street Fighter.

REFLECTION:
I was at Jimmy’s mercy. It also didn’t help that I had already taken some HOW happy pills so I was pretty much useless. Telling ya.. HOW are hellbent in transforming me into Barney the purple dinosaur.

O’Dell’s eyes open from the daze.

REFLECTION:
But then, when I feared for the worst. Like.. Jimmy sitting on me. I saw a familiar face. My blurry eyes started to clear and I could visibly see my get out of jail free card.

Gavin.

Fucking Gavin! My best friend through all of the shit I’ve been through in recent years was here to save the fucking day… as an Urchin. Granted, we were outnumbered but this thing was fucking on! We were going to fight these inbreds and gain the fucking respect!

Gavin then glasses some dickhead in the face and all hell breaks loose. But as O’Dell can even swing a punch back on his feet – The Urchins are already in the motherfucking building! Disguised with scarf’s around their mouths so they blended in with their rivals. And it’s chaos! Might as well liken this to a Tom And Jerry scrap with smoke and the whole hog.

Keith can’t be seen though as he’s probably a sleep back at home. He loves getting up early for some gardening.

REFLECTION:
When this match got announced with Robert Dean. You know, I felt alive. I got excited. And believe me, that’s not because he’s got titties the size of Dolly Parton.. it’s because this could of been something. Man, we could of stolen the show.

You know, here’s a guy that is as camp as Christmas and you can’t help but get entertained by him. His flamboyance could rival a 2004 Jonny O’Dell. Except, you know the difference, fat boy? I have a passion for my craft and not just eating lard straight from the packet.

Sorry darling, but you’re late to the party much like Darin Zion was last week. You’re too fat and lazy to show your hamster cheeks until your music hits for drag hour. And it’s not sexy, it’s disrespectful. Thinking you can just fall arse backwards (arse hanging out of jumpsuit with custom made arse flap) into Refueled 5 like it’s some obnoxious cabaret act. Well, here’s a song for you that couldn’t be anymore fitting..

WHO ATE ALL THE PIES
WHO ATE ALL THE PIES
YOU FAT BASTARD
YOU FAT BASTARD
DEANSY ATE ALL THE PIES

Fucking returned to HOW and it’s a roster full of counter fighters. I mean, granted, Darin Zion is like the Floyd Mayweather of the industry but even this Chris Farley wannabe thinks it’s ok to turn up late and eat all of the buffet. Better yet, sticking to the theme of the promo; classic counter attacking football it is. Like The Arsenal. Will allow the opponents to attack but will counter devastatingly if there’s a slip up.

But Robbo, you fat mess.. there’ll be no slip ups from me. The one against Mike Best will be my last. Funny that, how I compared you to The Arsenal. Unintentionally. Because the arse of this promotion truly belongs to you. You’re the donkeys arse, and take your pick who you want as the head. But, knowing these donkeys.. they’ll only navigate you to OCW.

You know, back in my day there was a drive to put the other guy on the back foot. A drive to be the best and prove it through every bastard medium of this sport. But, seems quite obvious to me that the only driving you’ll be doing is the driving through the McDonalds drive through. There’s no drive to win this match, nor is there a drive to actually drive your fat-arse (probably on a forklift) on the road to War Games.

Some might say it’s showman versus showman. A comedy match of all proportions. But it’s far from that, my fat friend. Because I simply won’t let it. Though, I will allow you to be the complete showman you so evidently are. But I’m gifting you that opportunity because this is fucking war to me. Not against the fat race; I can respect Riki Lake (if she’s still fat that is). But a war you simply got caught up in the crossfire in. Fuck, it’s gunna be like the ending of Ghostbusters when marshmallow flies everywhere. But in your case it’s gunna be raw beef. Raw beef that I’m personally going to put in between two pieces of bread, rationing it for potentially an even bigger war.

I’m telling you all now. I will legit commit murder if I’m not picked. History is not going to repeat itself and I refuse to accept a match with Shocker as a token gesture like it’s 2004  all over again. Pick me and we fucking go to war. Or.. don’t pick me and I’ll use the shank I made out of my toothbrush to make my own history. So pick carefully.

I don’t need to be medicated to forget that I’ve been obsessing about the 2004 rejection. There simply ain’t enough happy pills HOW can give me that will ever make me forget that. Because I’m an Urchin. And I never forget.

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