10:24am. Outside Martin Kirkley's modest 3 bedroom home in Sinfin. I've knocked twice, but there's no answer. Time to call his mobile.
MK: Shit, sorry, guys. I forgot all about it. I'm at Jagjit Dusanjh's place. He always throws the best pay-per-view eve parties. Well, second best, but the Dream Team won't let me into theirs. Anyway, last night was quite the evening- white wine on tap, a few friendly games of Scrabble. All we had to do was keep the noise down so his parents didn't find out.
Anyway, I must have overdone it on the wine, because I can't remember a thing after challenging one of Jag's dodgy Indian words. Funnily enough, right now my stomach is challenging one of Jag's dodgy Indian curries. Not the best preparation for a big match, but you live and learn.
11:49am. The basement of Martin's home, converted into a practice room, where the Classy one tells us about the importance of tonight's match, between running to the bathroom.
Tonight is big. It's big for me, and big for the company. The main event is a triple threat for the world title, but I like to think of my match as being equally as big. Excuse me, I think I'm going to vomit again...
(10 minutes later) Sorry about that. When Jagjit makes a curry, you know about it! Anyway, yes, my match tonight. This is about revenge for me, plain and simple. You see, I brought Phil Pearce into this company, but just like Andy Appleby before him, he turned his back on me. If he wanted a title shot, he only had to ask. There was no need for him to chalk me up and use me as a cue. I've been used as a cue by better players than you, Pearce. Remember that!
1pm. The local drycleaners, picking up Martin's suit as he tells us how and why he became 'Classy'.
I've been a Butcher all my life. My father was a butcher, and my father's father was a butcher. I took that mindset into the pool business and it served me well. But then the fans turned against me. They turned sour on my butchering ways, so I decided that I needed something new to win them over. Then, one day, while walking down the street, I found an old suit in a bin. It was a bit dirty, and I had to get my mum to sew some extra material onto the legs, y'know? But I liked the way it looked. I realised that if a suit and tie wouldn't get the fans back on the Kirklemania bandwagon, nothing would.
2.10pm. Shipley's Arena. Martin drops off his outfit, and takes in the arena.
I've played here many times of course. Won a fair few matches here too. Just think, in about five hours there'll be ten thousand plus in here to see me beat Phil Pearce. There's old Sally, one of the arena managers. A few of the boys have done her. Get's a little rowdy, y'know? Me? That would be telling.
(spying Dan Clearup, Steve White and Fat on the practise tables) There's Dan Clearup, Steve White and Fat, on the pracise tables. I've taken Clearup under my wing a little bit actually. He's a good player. Fat's nothing without Gos Ant as a mouthpiece. Have you ever tried talking to him? Gibberish.
3.03pm. The nearby Acropolis restaurant, where many of the players eat prior to the events. We are joined by Simon Turner of the Great Grebs, as Martin tells us about his past doubles teams.
I've been burnt in the past, yeah. Appleby, then Pearce. I've learnt that if you want anything out of this game, you have to go it alone. Simon, you've been in a doubles team all your career, but mark my words, they all end the same way. With Appleby I blame myself. He was a loose cannon ever since I first met him. Would drink himself into a stupor every night, wake up next to some godawful mess. I thought that pool might set him on the straight and narrow, but it went the other way. Dream Team, I hate you guys more than life itself, but let me give you a friendly warning- Appleby will screw you over too in the end. It's what he does. As for Pearce, I just never saw it coming. He was a solid guy, always by your side. Somebody must have got to him. Tonight's gonna hurt, beating him. I've got to make an example of him though. I'm nobody's stepping stone to greatness.
ST: I'm backing Kirkley, of course. Kirkley stands for what's right in this game of kings. I must admit though, I had a little flutter on Pearce, just to hedge my bets. What? I've got a family to raise.
7:57pm. Shipley's Arena. Backstage with Martin as he awaits his match, up next. Jagjit Dusanjh has just won a Fatal Fourway match, and is now cutting a promo on the stage.
Listen to that man. The whole audience in the palm of his hand, English and Punjabi. There's no promo man like him. That's good. He's leaving the crowd hot for me, warming them up. They were dead for the match. That's what you get when you follow Jag. Have to hope he gets on the mic after his match, otherwise half the crowd are looking at their watches.
I've got a few nerves. It's natural. I've been there before though. Two-time champion. I've played for the world championship on pay-per-view, played all the big stars. Pearce has got nothing. He's got to be bricking it. Look for me to win this one something like 5-2. It definitely won't go closer than 5-3, I've just got too much experience, too much in my locker.
(Jagjit passes by with a wink)
JD: Hear those fans now, Mr Kirkley? You owe me a magnum, my friend.
MK: Sling your hook. I'm still coughing up that tikka masala.
(Kirkley's music starts playing, and the MC announces his name)
Show time.
8:39pm. Backstage at Shipley's Arena. All is quiet, except for the faint sounds of celebration coming from a nearby locker-room. Phil Pearce kept his nerve to pot a black down the rails to seal a 5-4 victory, and become the new Intercontinental Champion.
I'm speechless. It hurts. I don't know what happened, I just couldn't get going. The fans played a part. I expected much more support. What was it? About 50-50? Didn't expect that. And who was that woman in Pearce's corner? It puts you off, something like that. I should have been informed. The company owes me that much. Maybe it was a stitch-up, I don't know. It's happened before. This has changed me, I know that. It's time for something different. It's time for me to rebel. From this moment on, Martin Kirkley will take no shit.
Martin Kirkley requested that we leave at that point, as he gently rocked back and forth in his locker-room. It was certainly an illuminating day, and I thank Martin for his time, and candor. Maybe he has a point about being stitched up. What we know for certain is that we have a new Intercontinental Champion, and that Kirkley may face a rocky road back to that championship.
Until next time, farewell.
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