When Birdy said, "Let's go to WWE Smackdown at the O2," Dan, Jamie and I were all like, "Haha, you're an idiot, but yes, that would be amazing," not expecting him to actually reply a few hours later with an email that went, "Okay, I've booked tickets, we have four seats in my company's corporate box, transfer me £30."
As a result of the confusion, at around 8.30pm last night I found myself watching a dwarf dressed as a leprechaun appearing to beat the beejesus out of a large-chested woman with luminous pink hair and leggings to match. I'm so glad I wasn't fully sober.
With little to no knowledge of the recent developments in the grand soap opera that is ECW, I couldn't quite follow the plot, but according to some sentimental older dude in a green vest, his son - the little person - had been drafted and was heading off to fight overseas (like, Vietnam?) the next day. The pink-haired lady and her asshole husband were taunting him for some reason, which led to the fighting pictured above.
Against all the odds, though, the Oirish underdog won, and, in scenes reminiscent of Spinal Tap's Stonehenge interlude, he celebrated by dancing round with three similarly-sized children to the strains of some manic Irish folk music, apparently composed by a misty-eyed American tourist with cliché-filters turned down to minus-11. As your typical WWE commentator might say, "I'VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT!"
Still, epic arena, that O2, if distinctly lacking in a hot dog chute pointing directly at my mouth. These pictures are made even better by the fact that you don't have to listen to nu-emo songs that all sound like Evanescence at full volume.
Like a quartet of raddled old-timers, we all had bets on who would win each fight: The Undertaker or The Big Show? Triple H or Randy Orton? Dan managed to call every one. Luck? Probably not: he was surprisingly well-versed in WWE history and could easily foresee the narrative patterns. Although not even he was expecting the leprechaun.
The upshot of all this was that I woke up this morning and found seven mini packs of Sugar Puffs-like cereal in my rucksack; in my head was a nagging feeling of guilt for telling Birdy that wrestling is fixed.