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[The Headliner]

The other day when we were going over some OMG Top Secret Forum Business, The Gopher made a comment in passing that he barely knew anything about me - as a person, beyond "Heady" and the discussions we'd had as admins about the site. He didn't mean anything negative by it, but I realized he was right. I've always been pretty guarded where my offline activities are concerned, with only selected topics and interests being fair game for conversation. Maybe I haven't always set the best example for our community in that regard, especially when one particular offline activity couldn't have been any more relevant to a board like this.

A couple of you know what I'm referring to because I couldn't keep it to myself on MSN at the time, but I've never spoken openly about it on the forums. Partly because it would have felt unprofessional, and partly because I didn't want to be seen as trying to portray myself as some enlightened insider who knows da biz better than anyone else. The IWC's got more than enough of those types already.

But I feel like sufficient time has now passed that I can share a little of what was a big part of my life between 2005 and 2009. I think you'll find it interesting and it may possibly add a bit of context to certain posts I've made over the years. But I apologize in advance for the length of this braindump. I haven't tried to write about it so comprehensively before.

Some names have been changed to make this thread less googleable.

[The Headliner]

When I finished university in the summer of 2004 I had to face the question that every young adult has to confront: What did I want to do with my life? I tried listening to my head over my heart and taking the practical and responsible approach, but at that point in time - or perhaps more pertinently, that age - I had never felt more strongly that pro wrestling was lodged unshakeably in my soul, and could not be overlooked just because it was unconventional, barely penetrable, and near impossible to make a living from. This was my language, this was my canvas; these were the stories that I wanted to tell.

Since the day I fell for wrestling at nine years old I knew I'd never have the physique to actually be a wrestler, nor did I particularly want to take that route. I'd always been intrigued by the thought of being a manager like Jimmy Hart or Bobby Heenan. Or a magazine writer like Vic Venom... By the end of my academic life I'd convinced myself that booking the matches and devising the storylines was the better outlet for the creative yearning that wrestling inspired in me. Like every other smart mark, I wanted to be the next Russo/Heyman/Sapolsky/whichever writer you prefer. But I knew that no promoter was going to just hand over the pencil to some inexperienced kid with nothing to show but an unfounded self belief.

I'm not one for new year's resolutions. But as everyone opened their 2005 calendars I promised myself I would at least make contact with the local wrestling school that I'd recently discovered, which ran its own shows and had connections with an indy promotion that had been making waves on the British scene (as it was). I'd seen it mentioned on their website or another form of publicity that they would train managers, so that seemed like a logical in-road. After all, if I could prove myself in that role and suggest some well received ideas then perhaps I could eventually earn enough confidence to be given the chance to book some angles.

Making that initial contact was a terrifying prospect though. Wrestling was another world, a dream world, one that could remain a fantasy so long as it was kept a safe distance away. I had no idea what would happen if I crossed that line, how I would handle that first interaction. Admitting that something is your dream, the measuring stick on which you will personally judge the fruition of your own life, and then putting yourself in a position to have those dreams dashed irreparably, is intimidating beyond words. There was every chance, every likelihood, that I was setting myself up for a devastating, depressing fall - but I knew that I'd hate myself more if I didn't at least give it a shot. If I let my fear of rejection and failure cripple me to the point that I didn't even try.

The phone call was the easy part. I was making an anonymous enquiry; whatever was said, I was in control and the encounter would be over as soon as I hung up the phone. I could immediately escape into a videogame or the Internet and forget it ever happened. I took a deep breath and dialled the number from their website. The line rang. Someone answered. I asked if they trained managers. He sounded surprised, hesitated, and asked where I was based. I told him. He conceded that they were my most local option, and so agreed that I could come along to their training facility during a session and speak to anyone there. Good. This was a start. Shit.

Of course now I had to go. Now I had to present myself in person and commit to a scenario where there was no anonymity, no sharp exit, and no forgetting the sights and sounds of physically being there, however shuddersome those memories may become.

I arrived by train and followed directions printed from the website to an entrance at the back of an old building. Stepping inside revealed nothing but a short, unlit corridor, its black paint peeling from the walls. There was only one internal door, at the end to the right. From behind it came the sounds of bodies being slammed, lungs being discharged, and instructions being called. I figured I had the right place.

And this was it. If I was to knock on this door, there'd be no turning back. For as long as I stood here, it wasn't too late. I could slip back outside unnoticed, catch the next train home, and make up some other reason why I'd gone out this afternoon. I could embrace the motto that if at first you don't succeed, destroy all evidence that you ever tried. But I'd come this far, and if at this stage I chickened out, I'd still be kicking myself seven years later.

I paced. I trembled. Then I raised my hand and knocked.

When the door opened there stood a man I recognized from The Wrestling Channel, now wearing the brightest dayglo T-shirt I had ever seen. He was a ten year veteran who I'll call Mike, and he was the head trainer of this wrestling school. I told him my name, that I was 22 years old, and that I wanted to be a wrestling manager.

"A manager...?" He sounded surprised (again), and invited me in. The entrance was in the crook of an L-shaped, wooden panelled room, housing three wrestling rings and some gym equipment. The trainees, mostly ranging from their mid to late teens, were now pairing up to help each other with stretches, sit-ups, and similar forms of torture. Mike asked me why I wanted to be a manager and not a wrestler, to which I offered little more explanation than it was just something I thought I'd be good at. Really selling myself like only the next Jim Cornette could muster...

I was given some time to prepare a promo for any match I wanted - it could even be about The Undertaker, whoever, just so long as I'd be able to talk about the match on camera for sixty seconds and make people want to buy a ticket. So I got back to pacing, running through lines in my head while the young wrestlers ran through routines in the ring. "Ready?" Yes. I thought so.

Mike and I were joined in a small side room by an assistant trainer who I'll call Jason - his first graduate at the school and a skilled technician. Mike held a video camera while Jason operated a clapperboard. I got the impression from Jason that he felt this was a waste of his time, and I didn't do a lot to change his mind. After a reasonable start for which I was complimented on my facial expressions, I stumbled, forgot my lines and fell apart. "It's live," Jason helpfully hypothesized to Mike, and I knew my one chance to impress was over.

But it wasn't. Mike told me to take as much time as I needed to come up with another promo, to practice it over and over in my head until I knew it all backwards, and when I was ready we'd try again. It was time for more pacing.

During this longer period of preparation the class relocated to a matted neighboring room that I hadn't previously noticed, and I had a brief conversation with the last trainee to leave my area. Let's call him Charlie. Charlie was about 15 and having a bad day it seemed, beginning to wonder why he bothered with it all. I felt for him but I couldn't relate. I had to remain driven by my frustration with that first promo, and turn a negative into a positive to make the most of this lifeline I'd been extended.

I don't remember any of my initial monolog, but I clearly recall the details of my second attempt. To ensure I wouldn't forget my lines again, I drew upon a promo that I'd been playing around with prior to my visit. I hadn't used it the first time because it had seemed too silly, but that wasn't important now. If anything was going to rescue me from the stampede of nerves pounding through my chest, if anything was going to put me in the main event and make enemies beware, it was going to be The Lion King.

[The Headliner]

The subject I'd chosen was a fictional match between national favorite Doug Williams and the trainee I'd just met, Charlie, at the upcoming King of England tournament. In reality this tournament had taken place three years before, on a televised special that helped to relaunch British indy wrestling with the support of talkSPORT, who hyped up the show to boost attendance and even broadcast live radio commentary.

The sixty second promo would begin with a reference to older lions on the plains of the Serengeti being dethroned by the younger, hungrier lions, and would be remembered for a spot of obnoxious singing: "On the day we arrive on the planet, and blinking, step into the sun... There's more to see, than can ever be seen, more to..." (singing stops, looking into the camera) "Oh, you don't like that? Well that's too bad, because I have a POINT. And that POINT is that beating Charlie in the King of England tournament is more to do than can ever be done! So Doug Williams, be prepared, because on the 9th of February in Crystal Palace, my client Charlie just cannot WAIT to be King!"

That's how it was supposed to go. Unfortunately the first person to forget that unforgettable promo was yours truly. Yes, on top of bottling out of actually singing the words (put off by knowing that the wrestlers were now back in the main section just the other side of this open doorway), I once again drew a blank towards the end of my speech. As you can imagine I was beside myself; I KNEW that I knew it. I could have recited it all ten times as soon as the camera wasn't on me, but looking down that lens I'd been struck again by what I came to believe was a form of stage fright.

Furious and embarrassed over this latest misstep, I banged my head against the wall and apologized for wasting their time today. I vowed to pursue acting lessons, thinking I could join some amateur stage productions before plucking up the courage to return here and try again. Mike didn't want to see me give up. "They'll tell you the same thing I've told you," he said, "Just learn your lines. Memorize them." He wanted to give me a chance, but from my perspective I was done. I was deeply disappointed in myself, and my confidence was shot. I felt I just wasn't cut out for this.

It wasn't to be the end though. While explaining my proposed gimmick of a self aggrandizing dirtsheet writer who thought he wielded great influence over the wrestling business, I'd mentioned to Mike that I'd spent a few years writing columns online, and I sent him some examples. Of the list I chose was one about the cover of WWE SmackDown Magazine that featured the in-ring celebration of Chris Benoit and Eddie Guerrero at WrestleMania XX. Damned if I can find a surviving copy now but someone liked it. Anyway, it was arranged that I would write some features for the school's website, and Mike invited me along to their next show to meet the webmaster.

The event, taking place in a local community center in front of 50-75 fans, turned out to be Paul Burchill's last UK appearance before flying over the Atlantic to begin his WWE developmental contract in OVW. I sat in the second row with the webmaster - Pete we'll call him. Pete was the brother of one of the more prominant trainee wrestlers, and as well as keeping the website updated, he was actually the booker for these shows. I wasn't sure what that meant for my chances of doing the same, but it was interesting to hear his thoughts on how the angles he'd written were being played out in front of us.

It was arranged that I'd return to the training facility in the coming weeks to speak with some of the young wrestlers booked for the next show, and write some articles about them on the site. I bought myself an MP3 player with a dictaphone feature and recorded their comments, using them to add authentic quotes to the stories. Mike was impressed with the compiled product and suggested I conduct another interview - in the ring at the upcoming show.

I had no idea why he trusted me with a live microphone after my recent debacles on camera, but he assured me I'd be fine and so I went along with it. Waiting backstage in preparation was surreal and the butterflies in my stomach rivalled the wrestlers in their acrobatics. The ring announcer, who'd seen my articles attributed on the site to "The Headliner," chose to add this nickname to my introduction, and so I embarked on the multitasking adventure of walking through the curtain and cringing from head to toe in the same moment.

Unbeknownst to myself at the time, sitting in the audience was a chap I'll call Dave who, on behalf of his own forum while running online newsboards around 2002, had been involved in a childish feud with the original WrestlingMania (from which WX had later splintered as a new site), but was now a wrestling promoter attending university in this town. So while I was reminding those in attendance of last month's match involving the faction I was about to introduce, my forum co-admin Neil who'd written for his sites was receiving a text saying, "Erm... Headliner's in the ring."

Talk about when worlds collide.

The interview went as planned. Though my heart was beating so hard I could barely breathe, speaking to a live crowd seemed easier than addressing a faceless camera. I was a little quiet on the mic, possibly due to the respiratory situation, but that's something you only learn after your first attempt. With my debut now behind me, I spent the rest of the show behind the curtain, watching the action and chatting with one of the youngest trainees (who was not show-ready) about such classy topics as at what exact moment in his journey between the ceiling and the hospital had Owen Hart passed away.

I refrained from returning to the locker room that first evening because I didn't feel worthy of including myself amongst the real talent on the show. I was always very careful, probably too careful, about not overstepping my bounds - not out of fear of how anyone would react, but out of my own sense of respect for the business and the greater sacrifices that wrestlers made. As enchanted as I'd been by the novelty, I'd avoided climbing onto any of the rings that first day at the training facility, even though talking to Mike would have been easier at times if I had, because to me they were hallowed ground. The first time I ever stepped between the ropes was because it was the sole route to the facility's matted room, where I had to accompany one of the wrestlers to record quotes for an article. I simply took nothing for granted. I did not want to be one of those over-eager fantasists who thought he was one of the boyz just because he'd carried someone's bag for them once. That was very important to me - whether it seemed silly to others I don't know.

[The Headliner]

On subsequent shows my role varied from interviewing wrestlers on camera backstage (pre-recorded, so my one mess-up could be re-shot just as theirs could) to sitting at ringside with the announcer in order to keep time and ring the bell. My first night as timekeeper was unusually high pressured, as the result of a tournament match hinged on me sounding a time limit draw just as the referee's hand was coming down for a certain three-count. So that was a trial by fire I suppose.

I soon started feeling a little awkward though, as I just didn't know why I was there. I'd turn up each month as the ring was being set up, and Mike would ask me what I wanted to do on the show. It was his show but he was asking me on the day what I wanted to do, whether it was timekeeping or some interviews or anything else. I'd politely turn the question back on him - what did he want me to do? - and we'd go back and forth until settling on something that was apparently as inconsequential as any other option. That's nothing to complain about, if anything I was in an enviable position to have that kind of freedom to do what I wanted, but it was frustrating to have that and still feel stupidly hesitant to suggest what I really did want - something more creative than watching the clock or asking a wrestler for his thoughts on tonight's match (the generic prompt that they would almost always request).

Then one autumn afternoon, as I arrived at a squeaky new training facility ahead of the evening's show, Mike informed me that the ring announcer had left for university, and asked if I'd be up for trying my hand at the role tonight. I won't say it hadn't crossed my mind that this day might come, but I'd imagined it being a little further down the line. As an MC you are the host of the show from start to finish, the crowd's interface with the whole presentation. On top of announcing the wrestlers to and from the ring, you also introduce the show, plug the merchandise, hype the main event, promote upcoming dates, bookend the interval, and send the fans home at the end of the night. And those are just the things you can prepare for. I didn't know if I was ready to shoulder that responsibility, but it was the only step forward that I could see from my current position. Of course I'd be the new announcer.

And it went okay. It went okay for the next 18 months. I finally had a defined role on the show and I steadily improved, learning from mistakes and tweaking the weaker aspects of my performance. If I can be so crass as to drop some names, over a year and a half I announced matches featuring Doug Williams, Chris Hero, Winter (then Nikita), Go Shiozaki, Takeshi Morishima, Ebessan (then Kikutaro), the Brisco Brothers, Austin Aries, and Daniel Bryan (then ROH World Champion Bryan Danielson). How I still remember those I don't know, because along the way I had a steel chair thrown at my head by a fellow named Mark - collateral damage during his shock transformation from mild mannered referee to scummy heel wrestler. Here's an insight: those things fucking hurt.

(If it had been anyone else I'd have been angry, but with a class act like Mark I knew it was a freak accident and shrugged it off - so much so that I was criticized for not selling enough. But if I'd collapsed from my seat, who was going to tell the crowd where to see the follow-up to this white hot closing angle the very next night?)

I took a certain amount of pride in my poker face when it came to working with internationally recognized stars, but there was one occasion when I had to be utterly shameless about my markdom to get in on a special visit being paid to the training facility, by a global superstar coming to give a seminar for the young wrestlers and trainees. I heard about it and immediately contacted Mike, unable to hide my enthusiasm, despite not actually having any legit reason to be there. And so that's how I got to meet Bret Hart, and sit in on his talk and watch the group put on matches for him to gain individual advice from a bona fide legend.

When I fluffed those two promos on my first day at the wrestling school, I could never have imagined things would soon be going so well. I truly felt that I was on the right path to wherever I wanted to go in British wrestling; that as long as I kept working hard and making every show count, then however long it took, opportunities would keep presenting themselves and good things would keep happening. I was writing press releases that Mike would send to newspapers, and writing detailed results to go online, all of which demonstrated a firm understanding of the characters and storylines involved in the shows, and in some cases embellishing them to create the desired effect. Possibly edging closer, I hoped, to helping out with the booking that Mike was now handling on his own after a falling out with Pete's brother.

Little did I know what was around the corner.

[The Headliner]

In late 2006 a text message was sent to everyone involved with the school, advising of an important meeting at the facility and that non-attendance would speak volumes. Faces old and new made sure to be there, and as we sat in the training rings waiting for Mike to come in and explain we exchanged jokey speculation about what was going on. But in the pits of our stomachs I think we all knew what Mike's tone could only mean.

Around this room full of young men and adolescents there was a lot of staring at shoelaces and blinking away of saltwater, as Mike detailed his reasons for closing down the wrestling school. In the end it came down to not believing that enough of his students took their training seriously, and he didn't want to be responsible for the increasing proliferation of semi-trained wrestlers on the scene pretending that they're professionals. He would see how things went over the next few months, but pending any miraculous changes, the show in January would be our last.

He did however commend non-wrestlers like myself for our dedication, and asked what he could do to make these final shows as rewarding as possible for us. Later I gave him the only answer I could. It was time to be upfront about my ambition to book, as the slowly-slowly approach had suddenly been ruled out.

Mike thought it over, and on October 28th my first wrestling angle was played out in the sports hall of a leisure center, involving two title changes by prerequisite. Everyone seemed pleased with it, but understandably Mike kept a firm grip of the book for the remaining shows leading up to the finale. Yes, it was really happening; there was no eleventh hour reprieve, the school's doors would be closing for good in the first month of 2007.

I don't think anyone was prepared for the turnout at that farewell event. In a community center where attendances had begun hovering below 50, they were now almost hanging from the rafters. It's practically tradition for British indy shows to be late starting, but not often because the line through the door is still coming strong. It was standing room only against every wall, and quite an emotional sight to witness. It seemed that nearly everyone who had ever been to one of these shows, and even some who had read about them but never got around to travelling the distance, had come to say goodbye.

In the crowd again was Dave, the promoter/former newsboard admin who'd messaged Neil upon identifying me that first night in the ring, and it was part of my job tonight to encourage the masses to support his shows that he'd be running in the venues vacated by the school. This I did, but more important to me was ensuring our fans had a night to remember. So for my part, with the aid of a prepared cue card, I feigned a sore throat and enlisted audience members of all ages to help me introduce some of the matches. The awwwwws induced by a young boy struggling but persevering to read his lines into the mic is my own favorite memory.

After the show Mike took everyone out to dinner and that was that. We all said our goodbyes, no one knowing if or when we would see each other again. Driving me home were two of only three wrestlers who Mike would continue to train, believing as he did in their potential and their commitment to accomplishing their goals. One was chair flinger extraordinaire Mark, who has since toured Japan with Dragon Gate and debuted on pay-per-view for TNA's X-Division.

[The Headliner]

Like most of the rest I was now in the position of having to start again with another promotion, if I was going to continue pursuing this business at all. It had only been Mike's inexplicable faith in me that had stopped me taking an indefinite sabbatical after just one tryout. I couldn't expect the same treatment from promoters who weren't already in the habit of taking in strays and patiently bringing out the best in them. My confidence had grown but only within the relative safety of that environment. I really didn't know what my future held.

Many of the wrestlers and crew would find their next port of call to be Dave, the former public enemy of WrestlingMania, starting with his debut event at the leisure center in April. One of them invited me to do something on the show, and I cautiously agreed. I wasn't sure how much the promoter might now differ from what I'd seen of his personality online over the years, but I did know he wasn't the only captain at the wheel of this ship, and for the other I had a lot more respect. So I'd go along, make no further commitments and see what happened.

On the night I sat with their announcer at ringside on bell ringing duty, and filmed an interview backstage. Well, I say interview; filmed being shoved off-camera within half a second before the wrestler launched into his promo. But that's what worked for his character, and they were using my favorite announcer who was much better than me, so all in all it made perfect sense.

But nothing about the experience actually felt right, and when asked by Dave if I wanted to continue as timekeeper and begin writing the same detailed results that I'd done for Mike's shows, I declined. Would it have been a smart move to get in with one of the most feverishly acclaimed British indies at the time? Most probably. But I'd discovered that I didn't value "career momentum" as much as my own peace of mind. I wasn't going to do whatever it took, only what I was comfortable with. And I wasn't comfortable aboard his ship, no matter who shared the wheel.

Indirectly however, he did play a part in opening another door.

When a former champion of the school - let's call him Harry - realized that one of the old venues wasn't a part of Dave's plans, he arranged to promote an event there on Dave's behalf under the same banner, sharing some of Dave's resources. When it went well, Harry continued running shows there without further assistance, using many of the wrestlers who locals knew from the school's events.

I began attending as a fan to catch up with friends on the crew and see how the promotion was getting on. But when they lost their announcer (down the back of the sofa perhaps) I found myself back on the other side of the guardrail like I'd never been away. Harry may not have had the experience and connections that Mike had, but the more relaxed atmosphere meant I could loosen up and experiment as a slightly more rounded MC than I'd been in the past. Sometimes I'd succeed in warming up the crowd that little bit more, and sometimes my lines would go down like the proverbial lead balloon. But it was fun to try things out, and I let myself get talked into things that the fans had never seen me do - from dressing up as Santa, to getting put in a camel clutch/chinlock submission by a dastardly heel.

Because of the more casual environment I began thinking again about managing, still with a view to earning a shot at some booking. On the regular roster was a powerhouse who was meant to be a monster heel, but didn't know how to present himself as such. I thought he could really benefit from a mouthpiece, and I now felt confident that I could make the transition. We discussed it and went with my proposal that I'd begin as the bullied announcer, forced to read statements on his behalf which disparaged the crowd and his opponents. Even then it was an effort to make him act menacing towards little old me, but we were making progress. Until he dropped the bombshell that he was retiring from the ring.

So I'd backed the wrong horse there. It was like fate was teasing me, dangling a carrot and then snatching it away. Except, that's a metaphor about donkeys, not horses. And confusing matters further, riding to my rescue was Charlie on a zebra.

[The Headliner]

Charlie, that dispirited teenager I spoke with on my first day at the old training facility, was now tagging up at another local fed with a former referee I'll call Johnny. Johnny was uninhibited; he loved nothing more than to strip butt naked while driving a carload of wrestlers (and on one occasion, poor old me) to or from a show, and had to be careful he grabbed the right hose when alighting onto a service station forecourt.

Together he and Charlie were now the CJ Connection, a colorfully brash heel tag team riling up the crowd at the community center that was once the wrestling school's stomping ground. And knowing of my early managerial ambitions, Johnny asked if I'd be interested in making their act a threesome. Thankfully, he was fully clothed when saying this.

I was onboard 100%, and prior to their next match they introduced their new manager to the crowd. This is one promo that'll be etched on my brain forever:

"Y'know Johnny, I haven't been back in this building for nearly two years, because I honestly thought it had some kind of sewage problem. But tonight, I find out that even after the renovations, the smell... is still... here. And it's stronger than ever, which says to me that it's not the building at all - it's the people!

"For years I gave you all the benefit of the doubt, but there's no disguising it anymore: [This town] has a personal hygiene problem, and it needs cleaning up.

"And you know what else stinks? The fact that the CJ Connection don't get their Tag Team Title shot, just because one of the Albrights is injured... Well we didn't come here tonight to wallow in our own filth like the people of [this town], we came here to hurt someone.

"So Jed Albright, I suggest you find a replacement for your brother, because titles or no titles, partner or no partner, the CJ Connection is going to beat the SEWAGE right out of you!"

Ric Flair, eat your heart out.

As Jed and his stand-in partner showed up and entered the ring, someone in the crowd noticed that my all-black, collarless outfit that I always wore was perhaps a little high waisted, and decided that it made me resemble a certain TV talent show judge. And that was it. The "SI-MON COW-ELL" chants started and would fill the hall every time I showed my face in that venue. Johnny covered my ears while I reacted with rage and indignation, but in reality it was one of the best things that could have happened for my character.

Years after my Simba-inspired promo into Mike's camera, my "client" Charlie was finally crowned, as he and Johnny became strap-wearing kings of the tag team division. The crowd hated all three of us and at times I felt like the hottest heel on the show. Preparing promos became futile because they would drown me out as soon as I opened my mouth. I was the Vickie Guerrero of this community center's wrestling world. But that wasn't the only reason that drafting a speech was a waste of time.

The promoter, with whom I had very little contact as everything was organized through Charlie and Johnny, was a greasy, toothless man in his fifties or sixties, and he sat ringside with the announcer throughout the show. He didn't book the matches, but he could never resist interjecting himself and disrupting my promos. I'd have a tale to weave that would explain the set-up for my team's match, but even the fans who wanted to listen never got to hear the point of it all before he'd butt in with his own mic to put the heels in their place and soak up the cheers. The anger and frustration in my reactions to him became increasingly real, as he seemed entirely unwilling to let the heels sustain any heat. By cutting our legs out from under us before the match even began, he negated the role of the babyface wrestlers who were supposed to be the white knights saving the fans from our smugness.

Eventually I came up with an idea that would not only serve as a compromise, but literally capitalize on the relentless "Simon Cowell" chants. I made a recording of the buzzer sounds from Britain's Got Talent (when the judges light up their red X's to call an end to the terrible act on stage) and issued the promoter with two red glowsticks. The plan was for him to switch off the lights during my promo, the buzzers would sound as he held up the glowing red X symbol, and I'd furiously act like my mic had been cut off.

It worked a treat. The crowd lapped it up and as the glowsticks were passed around between the announcer and various kids, I sold the red X like kryptonite, cowering away and cursing the day these spiteful, disrespectful brats were born. The successful launch of this gimmick warranted phase two, which was having Johnny's girlfriend sell my own stock of glowsticks at her merchandise table, so that soon I had glowing crosses of all colors pointed at me like I was some kind of vampire.

Thank you, Mr Cowell.

[The Headliner]

But all good things come to an end. The greasy promoter left the area (and the town's hygiene standards were instantly raised), while Harry ceased running the shows on which I was announcing due to falling attendances. Within a month or two of each other, both promotions that I'd been regularly working with were gone. I'd MC'd two or three shows for the former wrestling school announcer who'd used my "Headliner" nickname in front of my first live audience, but I didn't want to commit long term to any more announcing - a role in which I felt I'd reached my own peak and had begun regressing as my interest waned.

There's still plenty of wrestling in the area. Shows are still held in the community center, but the CJ Connection are no more (Johnny's birthday suit has been stretched by a few too many beers and kebabs, and Charlie now has a drag gimmick in another part of the country, doing his best to blend in with talents who've wrestled for SHIMMER). Once in a blue moon I believe Dave and his crew still pay a flying visit to a venue in town, and another promoter runs events with large crowds and famous names but questionable integrity.

If I was still hungry to be involved at all costs then I would send some texts and see what opportunities are out there. But I'm not. For now my adventure in the confounding world of wrestling is over. In some ways it ended in January '07, but through good fortune I was able to collect a few more experiences of a select nature, granting me memories that I cherish. I intend to frame the poster drawn by a nine-year-old boy of a chicken named Simon (sadly crumpled by my outraged hands; "It looks nothing like me... My hair's not even red.")

This isn't to say I don't still have ambitions. But I've come to accept that if I want to write the story, it's going to have to be in my own book, not someone else's. And my head's now brimming with ideas for all aspects of the business, but they're going to have to wait. There's a lot in my life that needs to be settled in place before this particular ship can set sail, if indeed it ever does.

In the meantime, now that The Gopher can picture me as a 50-year-old man with a flat top standing between a future drag queen and an exhibitionist, perhaps he'll be more careful what he wishes for.

[Illusion]

I remember you looking for the X Factor buzz noise but didn't know about the rest.  That means you've introduced the current world champ in WWE.  That's awesome.

[Hazzy]

Ha I remember you looking for that buzzer sound too.

That was awesome. You should tell us your whole life story. I'd even pay you like 99p for it. If we all bought it you could make like £5.

(click to show/hide)

btw Gopher can you please do something about all the double posts? I swear its one rule for him and another for us...

[Matches Malone]

Some men only dream of doing that.

[Illusion]

I remember when I was 12 and had dreams, and was going to become the greatest wrestler of all time, and main event Wrestlemania against AJ Styles.

Now I'm a cleaner that only watches every so often.

[Hazzy]

*washes.

[Illusion]

Shut up.  You don't even wash after eating my ass.

[The Headliner]

Some men only dream of doing that.

Men such as him? I'm sure if he puts the effort in then he too can one day electrify his local community center.

In fact if he struggles to remember his promos then he can just improvise and become the captain of Team Wing It.