Post by Johnny "True Brit" Brown on Nov 12, 2011 13:40:17 GMT -4
“Your smart mouth is going to get you in trouble one day!”
My teacher told me that, when you’re 8 years old those are harsh words. I never saw her again after that. The “sudden and unexplained” death of her cat made her quit her job. She lost her loving for teaching I’m told, I think she just learned her place. If ya mess with Johnny Brown… $hit happens.
At Asylum Katie Whorton is going to learn the same lesson. I won’t go anywhere near her pet pussy, I have shenis-aphobia after all.
But what I will do is smack the piss out of her. She b… be… bea… beat me for my Tap-out title.
That was hard for me to say, almost as hard as it is for her to say no to a bunk-up under the allegedly infamous San Diego pier. Word around her home town is that she joined the circus as a sword swallower, or at least I think that’s what they meant.
Her buddy Charlie ‘Boy’ Scripps aka the Glory Hole Kid was going to join her on her Big Top tour but he was too small to be a midget and too feminine to be a bearded lady.
As usual I came out of the gate hard, I could beat around the bush like the bulk of APW, talking about daddy issues and Need for Weed (in theatres now) but that’s not me. I go full ahead breaking down doors an’ kicking arse.
Screech go the brakes, the doors get a reprised.
What the hell happened to the market?
While on one of his now trademark rants Johnny Brown has strolled along the Drapery (think of The Verve's Bitter sweet Symphony but with muscles and a proper haircut), cut down “piss alley” into Northampton Market Square. The market a place where Johnny picked many a pocket has changed. Gone are the ancient wooden stalls and greasy burger vans, replaced with artsy fartsy statues and platforms for the performing arts.
Johnny strolls around like a confused fish, his mouth agape. He stomps and smiles when a thought dawns on him.
About f’kin’ time. Sure the whole place looks a little queer. All the new ponsy crap but the whole damn place is run by true Brits.
Before Kate gets her jizz stained granny pants in an uproar I mean this in a patriotic way, the damn yanks bang on about national pride and such red, white and blue BS but when I do it I’m racist.
Listen, when I was a kid this place was a true sign of the common man. The tattooed boys who dropped outta school could graft and make something outta their lives. Then the ‘immigrants’ came over and took it from them. First it was one with the stall on the corner when old man George passed, then they spread. The red, white an’ blue were overtaken by a sea of brown.
Ya could argue they put in the work, no early finishes to go get drunk in the Auctioneers, they got up at the crack of damn and worked until dark. But working to pay for ya beer…good damn it that’s the English way. Don’t any of them watch EastEnders?
A bellow from a pitch-holder offering “a pound per pound on Apples” cuts across Johnny, hitting his ear hard. He squints and inserts his index finger into his ear to clear it. All the time with a smile that seems to recall fond memories; despite his typical claims of not having any none.
I read in the local rag that they even ran riot through Sainsbury's in the Grosvenor, on some kind of Jihad smacking the English boys with koshes.
The cops did nothing, so the originals had no choice but to leave. But now they're back. Was it because they have moved inta shops or was it 'cos the British spirit that helped us through the blitz.
Either way, I'm gonna us these guys as an inspiration to win me gold back.
Just like me boys here I’m not gonna let my persecutor (Kate Horton) take what is mine. She may have mugged me off once and stole MY belt, but as LL said 'Don't Call It a Comeback' bitch. You can fight but can ya really “fight”.
I ain't coming ta trade holds or showcase the skills I learnt in the Snakepit. I’m simply here to use the skills I learnt in street fights across the U.K. If you've survived a fight on Shankill Road, Belfast, no shemale is gonna take me down.
Has Horton got enough left to face me? She has her hands full with The Fortunate Sons, after the head-f'ing arse kicking the SDSG's took, like the pussies they are.
It's make ya mind up time Katie-Bear, are you a part of a team or a singles champ? Do ya want it all? Is your ego so fragile you need to have all of the gold ta make yerself feel important? P'haps ya need to ask Mike Jennings for his therapists number, ta me ya seem two of a kind. So wrapped up in making yerself sound like something special , in proving yerself ya overlook the real issues.
FACT! I bigger than you, is you excuse yer child-bearing hips and Roger Ramjet jaw.
FACT! I am better than you. It's not just that I’m a man, although that has a lot to do with is. It's evolution, just face it. My big boot is gonna stomp you through the mat. Quick little snippet for ya, do you know why you have smaller feet than me?
It so ya can stand closer to the sink and cooker... ha ha get it cos you're a woman and that's yer job, to wait on men. Not ta stand in the ring, in their world.
P'haps an unrealised sense of fairplay clouded my judgement before. Did I hold back? Can ya even tell me. When I hit ya with the EDL did ya feel yer neck snap? Was it only yer extensive history of sucking d*ck that gave yer the neck muscles to keep yer fugly face attached to yer deformed body?
Ok, I’ll say it, cheap heat. I know the boys on the dirt sheets will say it. Running down an opponents physically or trashing their home town; oh that remind me San Diego is full of queers and hookers, it's basic stuff right? I'm a basic guy.
BFF that's my motto, check my twitter, yep it's reached the U.K. The True Brit tweets. Beer fighting an' f**king, normally I don't stipulate an order but if Kate were gonna join me in me BFF I’d definitely need the Beer before the f**king, I’ve banged some munters in me time, mainly right here in Northants, a few under the old market stalls. Some in the aptly named Fish Street.
Digression? Screw it, who says beer kills brain cells? It's more likely the shock of having Horton's milky white thighs wrapped around me noggin. Seeing something so white close up may have burnt a hole in me brain. Us English ain’t ones to GTL and the British weather ain’t gonna give us a Snookie coloured hue but you make Casper the friendly ghost look like the Hulkster.
To a true fighter like me the aesthetics don’t matter really, but the mind games of a battle can be just as important.
The way you look, the way you carry yerself it means something. You ain’t gonna intimidate anyone. Yer a crooked nose, pale-skinned tranny looking freak in a leotard. Sort yerself out, I want this match ta be highly anticipated.
Despite yer miraculous victory over me do any of the fans take ya seriously?
P'haps your overly hairy bikini line will give ya Samson-like strength. Will I be like the Asiatic Lion of legend and you will simply tear me apart?
Nah, I don't think so. The flight of the San Diego Seagulls is over, you like yer name sakes are scavengers. Picking yer spots and stealing others peoples food or in this case title belts.
When we have both walked down the immortal aisle in the Air Canada Centre, once the crowd has settled down from seeing the True Brit in the flesh, or from puking their Canuck guts up from seeing Horton's grim visage. They will see me wring yer scrawny neck then pluck ya metaphoric feathers leaving ya with nothing.
Don't worry I’m sorry Capn Yawn aka Charlie Scripps will wheel ya down to the pier yer both so fond off so ya can look out at the real gulls flying high. You can remember those few short weeks when your life meant something, the few short weeks between stealing my title and when ya had to pay the piper.
JaMaHa was the first step in my run back to the top, you Katie Horton will be the second. Prepare yer horse face ta feel the bottom of me boot, cos in a few short days stomp, stomp, stomp you'll be crushed under me 19-holers,
Now let me spout the words the True Brit Pack want ta hear...
Kate Horton at Asylum...
Ya get yer f'n 'ead kicked in!!!!
Brown holds his final pose until the camera stops filming, or rather it should have stopped filming. The astute camera man keeps the film rolling as he spots Johnny's old adversary PC Steve Jones. (For those who have no clue who he is go read promo “History or His Story, we'll wait)
Threats of violence Mr Brown. Perhaps I should take you in for questioning. I'm sure your bosses at APW would like it if you missed your next show. It's your chance at redemption isn’t it? I seem to remember your youth worker tell me you were beyond help.
JB squeezes his nose as he draws up a load of fleghm. One spit later it narrowly misses the Officers shiny boot.
You could try, the thing is, now I don’t have ta rely on the crappy duty brief or me folks ta bail me out. With my secret sponsors cash and me APW dollars I can buy an' sell yer washed up arse Jones. Oh before I forget did your wife like the flowers I sent?
I hardly call a wreath flowers Brown, real classy. Is that all you've got I at least expected a broken window or an arson attempt. If that was indicative or your wrestling career, maybe you should give up now. Horton beat you before Jonathan why not quit before you embarrass yourself.
Give up? What like you have? So I can hang around this shit hole and reminisce? Do you think that’s what the last weeks have been about? Easing meself inta retirement. Of all the places I’ve lived why would I choose here? Cos my folks kept coming back here after yet another fresh beginning failed?
I've come back to get meself motivated, to remind me of the shit I came from. To remind to that I don’t want to be here, to be like you.
People like you, Scripps and Horton who love their home town so much are short-sighted idiots. I am more than one town, whether they love me or hate me every person in the British Isles wishes they could do what I do. They all secretly envy me and my success.
I'm Richard Branson, David Beckham and every other successful Brit rolled into one. The whole nation will be sat in their semi's or council flats watching APW's Asylum and living through me as I beat Kate Horton into submission.
I'll make her Go Home in record time, the uggo's luck has ran out. The Tap-Out title like football is coming home.
Rule F'king Britannia.
My teacher told me that, when you’re 8 years old those are harsh words. I never saw her again after that. The “sudden and unexplained” death of her cat made her quit her job. She lost her loving for teaching I’m told, I think she just learned her place. If ya mess with Johnny Brown… $hit happens.
At Asylum Katie Whorton is going to learn the same lesson. I won’t go anywhere near her pet pussy, I have shenis-aphobia after all.
But what I will do is smack the piss out of her. She b… be… bea… beat me for my Tap-out title.
That was hard for me to say, almost as hard as it is for her to say no to a bunk-up under the allegedly infamous San Diego pier. Word around her home town is that she joined the circus as a sword swallower, or at least I think that’s what they meant.
Her buddy Charlie ‘Boy’ Scripps aka the Glory Hole Kid was going to join her on her Big Top tour but he was too small to be a midget and too feminine to be a bearded lady.
As usual I came out of the gate hard, I could beat around the bush like the bulk of APW, talking about daddy issues and Need for Weed (in theatres now) but that’s not me. I go full ahead breaking down doors an’ kicking arse.
Screech go the brakes, the doors get a reprised.
What the hell happened to the market?
While on one of his now trademark rants Johnny Brown has strolled along the Drapery (think of The Verve's Bitter sweet Symphony but with muscles and a proper haircut), cut down “piss alley” into Northampton Market Square. The market a place where Johnny picked many a pocket has changed. Gone are the ancient wooden stalls and greasy burger vans, replaced with artsy fartsy statues and platforms for the performing arts.
Johnny strolls around like a confused fish, his mouth agape. He stomps and smiles when a thought dawns on him.
About f’kin’ time. Sure the whole place looks a little queer. All the new ponsy crap but the whole damn place is run by true Brits.
Before Kate gets her jizz stained granny pants in an uproar I mean this in a patriotic way, the damn yanks bang on about national pride and such red, white and blue BS but when I do it I’m racist.
Listen, when I was a kid this place was a true sign of the common man. The tattooed boys who dropped outta school could graft and make something outta their lives. Then the ‘immigrants’ came over and took it from them. First it was one with the stall on the corner when old man George passed, then they spread. The red, white an’ blue were overtaken by a sea of brown.
Ya could argue they put in the work, no early finishes to go get drunk in the Auctioneers, they got up at the crack of damn and worked until dark. But working to pay for ya beer…good damn it that’s the English way. Don’t any of them watch EastEnders?
A bellow from a pitch-holder offering “a pound per pound on Apples” cuts across Johnny, hitting his ear hard. He squints and inserts his index finger into his ear to clear it. All the time with a smile that seems to recall fond memories; despite his typical claims of not having any none.
I read in the local rag that they even ran riot through Sainsbury's in the Grosvenor, on some kind of Jihad smacking the English boys with koshes.
The cops did nothing, so the originals had no choice but to leave. But now they're back. Was it because they have moved inta shops or was it 'cos the British spirit that helped us through the blitz.
Either way, I'm gonna us these guys as an inspiration to win me gold back.
Just like me boys here I’m not gonna let my persecutor (Kate Horton) take what is mine. She may have mugged me off once and stole MY belt, but as LL said 'Don't Call It a Comeback' bitch. You can fight but can ya really “fight”.
I ain't coming ta trade holds or showcase the skills I learnt in the Snakepit. I’m simply here to use the skills I learnt in street fights across the U.K. If you've survived a fight on Shankill Road, Belfast, no shemale is gonna take me down.
Has Horton got enough left to face me? She has her hands full with The Fortunate Sons, after the head-f'ing arse kicking the SDSG's took, like the pussies they are.
It's make ya mind up time Katie-Bear, are you a part of a team or a singles champ? Do ya want it all? Is your ego so fragile you need to have all of the gold ta make yerself feel important? P'haps ya need to ask Mike Jennings for his therapists number, ta me ya seem two of a kind. So wrapped up in making yerself sound like something special , in proving yerself ya overlook the real issues.
FACT! I bigger than you, is you excuse yer child-bearing hips and Roger Ramjet jaw.
FACT! I am better than you. It's not just that I’m a man, although that has a lot to do with is. It's evolution, just face it. My big boot is gonna stomp you through the mat. Quick little snippet for ya, do you know why you have smaller feet than me?
It so ya can stand closer to the sink and cooker... ha ha get it cos you're a woman and that's yer job, to wait on men. Not ta stand in the ring, in their world.
P'haps an unrealised sense of fairplay clouded my judgement before. Did I hold back? Can ya even tell me. When I hit ya with the EDL did ya feel yer neck snap? Was it only yer extensive history of sucking d*ck that gave yer the neck muscles to keep yer fugly face attached to yer deformed body?
Ok, I’ll say it, cheap heat. I know the boys on the dirt sheets will say it. Running down an opponents physically or trashing their home town; oh that remind me San Diego is full of queers and hookers, it's basic stuff right? I'm a basic guy.
BFF that's my motto, check my twitter, yep it's reached the U.K. The True Brit tweets. Beer fighting an' f**king, normally I don't stipulate an order but if Kate were gonna join me in me BFF I’d definitely need the Beer before the f**king, I’ve banged some munters in me time, mainly right here in Northants, a few under the old market stalls. Some in the aptly named Fish Street.
Digression? Screw it, who says beer kills brain cells? It's more likely the shock of having Horton's milky white thighs wrapped around me noggin. Seeing something so white close up may have burnt a hole in me brain. Us English ain’t ones to GTL and the British weather ain’t gonna give us a Snookie coloured hue but you make Casper the friendly ghost look like the Hulkster.
To a true fighter like me the aesthetics don’t matter really, but the mind games of a battle can be just as important.
The way you look, the way you carry yerself it means something. You ain’t gonna intimidate anyone. Yer a crooked nose, pale-skinned tranny looking freak in a leotard. Sort yerself out, I want this match ta be highly anticipated.
Despite yer miraculous victory over me do any of the fans take ya seriously?
P'haps your overly hairy bikini line will give ya Samson-like strength. Will I be like the Asiatic Lion of legend and you will simply tear me apart?
Nah, I don't think so. The flight of the San Diego Seagulls is over, you like yer name sakes are scavengers. Picking yer spots and stealing others peoples food or in this case title belts.
When we have both walked down the immortal aisle in the Air Canada Centre, once the crowd has settled down from seeing the True Brit in the flesh, or from puking their Canuck guts up from seeing Horton's grim visage. They will see me wring yer scrawny neck then pluck ya metaphoric feathers leaving ya with nothing.
Don't worry I’m sorry Capn Yawn aka Charlie Scripps will wheel ya down to the pier yer both so fond off so ya can look out at the real gulls flying high. You can remember those few short weeks when your life meant something, the few short weeks between stealing my title and when ya had to pay the piper.
JaMaHa was the first step in my run back to the top, you Katie Horton will be the second. Prepare yer horse face ta feel the bottom of me boot, cos in a few short days stomp, stomp, stomp you'll be crushed under me 19-holers,
Now let me spout the words the True Brit Pack want ta hear...
Kate Horton at Asylum...
Ya get yer f'n 'ead kicked in!!!!
Brown holds his final pose until the camera stops filming, or rather it should have stopped filming. The astute camera man keeps the film rolling as he spots Johnny's old adversary PC Steve Jones. (For those who have no clue who he is go read promo “History or His Story, we'll wait)
Threats of violence Mr Brown. Perhaps I should take you in for questioning. I'm sure your bosses at APW would like it if you missed your next show. It's your chance at redemption isn’t it? I seem to remember your youth worker tell me you were beyond help.
JB squeezes his nose as he draws up a load of fleghm. One spit later it narrowly misses the Officers shiny boot.
You could try, the thing is, now I don’t have ta rely on the crappy duty brief or me folks ta bail me out. With my secret sponsors cash and me APW dollars I can buy an' sell yer washed up arse Jones. Oh before I forget did your wife like the flowers I sent?
I hardly call a wreath flowers Brown, real classy. Is that all you've got I at least expected a broken window or an arson attempt. If that was indicative or your wrestling career, maybe you should give up now. Horton beat you before Jonathan why not quit before you embarrass yourself.
Give up? What like you have? So I can hang around this shit hole and reminisce? Do you think that’s what the last weeks have been about? Easing meself inta retirement. Of all the places I’ve lived why would I choose here? Cos my folks kept coming back here after yet another fresh beginning failed?
I've come back to get meself motivated, to remind me of the shit I came from. To remind to that I don’t want to be here, to be like you.
People like you, Scripps and Horton who love their home town so much are short-sighted idiots. I am more than one town, whether they love me or hate me every person in the British Isles wishes they could do what I do. They all secretly envy me and my success.
I'm Richard Branson, David Beckham and every other successful Brit rolled into one. The whole nation will be sat in their semi's or council flats watching APW's Asylum and living through me as I beat Kate Horton into submission.
I'll make her Go Home in record time, the uggo's luck has ran out. The Tap-Out title like football is coming home.
Rule F'king Britannia.
