The world of professional wrestling only generally impinges on the collective consciousness when a participant roid rages his way into murder-suicide but it’s not all chuckles and glamour. Insane Fight Club takes us into the unknown world of a significantly less dark and significantly less interesting form of wrestling: Insane Championship Wrestling. Its founder, hype man and tea boy Glaswegian Mark Dallas describes the ICW ethic: “blood, violence, bad language – stuff like that”. “I-C-DUB!” is the chant that unites the Catholic, the Protestant, the Jew, the Presbyterian in the divided city of Glasgow ¹. Having come up on an estate rougher than a rhino’s frenulum Mark wants to make ICW an authentic alternative to WWE to make his girlfriend Helen proud and give his young son Danny the chances he never had. Trying hard now, getting strong now.
Having been an underground hit for a while Mark wants to take ICW up a notch: a show at the 1100 capacity Glasgow O2 Arena. “Everything’s riding on this. Ma company’s reputation, ma rent, ma wain’s Christmas” – sounded quite a bit like Dee Dee from Limmy’s Show. ICW’s star attraction is Grado a chip guzzling tub of shit whose catchphrase “It’s yersel’!” and YouTube videos filmed in his mum’s living room have catapulted him to the kind of stardom that means he can’t walk down the street without getting out of breath. In the age of shite in a bucket callout videos it’s a crowded marketplace but Grado distills the essence of his appeal. “I’m a chubby wee underdog, a chubby wee chancer”. Yeah, he’s all that.
Grado distills the essence of his appeal. “I’m a chubby wee underdog, a chubby wee chancer”.
There’s some seriously dicey health and safety in ICW. When the big event comes it sells out and ICW heavyweight Jack Jester gets some blood in his eyes. He pulls through. Tell you what though: he’ll be a bit sore tomorrow!!
Look motherfuckers. Nobody wants a steel chair over the back, a kick up the arse, a slap in the tits or a sprained vag but when the mainstream is an authentically insane parade of suicidal, car crashing, roided up, gut shot, walking cardiac arrests where does the underground go? In the hellish shitscape of professional wrestling there’s no place for a streetfighting man.
The verdict: British bull, dawg.
Marks out of 10: 6
¹ Aerial Telly knows little and cares less of the truth of this.