Post by Jules on Dec 5, 2011 20:03:10 GMT -4
Day 1, Heathrow Airport, London
As soon as the plane landed he felt much better about himself. The novelty of being back in England revitalised him. He felt stronger, wiser and more at peace. He was looking forward to a reception from the home crowd.
The private jet came to a standstill and the air crew completed all their procedures. Julius Farquhar was home at last, spending a week in more familiar terrain, amongst friends, family and his English fans – what better way to prepare for your APW pay-per-view debut than this?
The hostess opened the door and Julius stepped forward, arms outstretched, anticipating the welcome for a messiah. He stepped through the door to be greeted by a typically grey English day consisting of blanket cloud, that English drizzle that persists like a disobedient toddler seeking attention, and a cold that didn’t hurt like the freeze of the world’s most frostbitten places, but a cold that soaked into the bones and could not be shaken off from the time you arrived to the time you left. There was no procession of ecstatic fans, no flash-flash-flash of the expectant paparazzi. Just the hostess, a few brow-beaten members of the airport’s ground crew, and the obviously incompetent PR executive hired to ‘handle’ Julius Farquhar’s return to his homeland.
“Mr. Farquhar,” the executive slithered, “welcome home”.
This is not exactly the welcome I had in mind.
“Hmmm, I am terribly sorry.”
Where are my fans? Where are the paparazzi probing my nether regions for the latest scoop? Where is the red carpet? Where is the Prime Minister to personally greet a national hero? Why am I not going deaf from the screams and howls of young starry-eyed children? Why are women not throwing themselves at me, ripping at my $3000 trousers to get a good handful of my quintessential manliness?
“I’m so sorry Mr. Farquhar.”
Where is my silver service? The Fortnum & Mason delivery service? Did I not order tea and crumpets on arrival? Did I not demand a welcome befitting a man of my stature?
“You did Mr. Farquhar, I am terribly sorry.”
Manservant, deal with this cretin please. Where is my limo?
“Uh, no limo service I am afraid Mr. Farquhar, but I can hail a taxi for you.”
Julius Farquhar storms off across the concrete and into the terminal. He doesn’t get very far before he is spotted by a member of Joe public.
“Hey Jules!”
It’s Mr. Farquhar.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ve seen you wrestling on that APW.”
Good. I knew I could count on the ordinary folk of England recognising a true national icon.
“Yeah, yeah. I saw you got owned by that Mr. Dangerous.”
The man starts to laugh. Julius, irate, starts to storm off. The man calls out to him.
“Hey, come on Jules, it’s just a giggle, bruv. Come on, do me a favour?”
Julius stops, and flashing a smile returns to the man.
“Can I get an autograph?”
Of course. I knew you were a fan. What do you want me to sign?
“You sign? I want you to sign nothing, I thought you might be able to get me C.J. Gates’ autograph and send it to this address.”
The man hands Julius a card with a name and address and walks off in a fit of giggles.
*
The cab ride back to his mansion was tortuous. It was the first occasion in weeks in which he had time to think, to reflect on his time as a professional wrestler in APW, to deliberate his merits and faults. It was certainly the case that things had not gone so well. Four matches and just one victory; a solitary victory against a lame duck; a man who may as well have not turned up for all the effort he put in. Then it was defeat to Warren Peace, the kid who has proved that he alone was the one to watch from APW’s new breed. Nathaniel Havok was the established and seasoned professional who put Julius firmly in his place, even if Havok did need outside assistance. Even Mr. Dangerous, in his own way, got one over him. It was a positively depressing state of affairs; a losing run the like of which he had never before encountered in the whole of his life. He looked around the APW roster and he smelt a lot of garbage, but what if it was he who was stinking the place out? Could he, Julius Farquhar, the world’s first and only quintessentially English wrestler, really be considered a loser and a failure? Was he the worst that APW had to offer? Jobber to the future stars? A joke that surpassed in hilarity even Adam Young’s pretentions to World Heavyweight Championship contendership? It was pestilence for his soul this feeling of pure redundancy; a feeling that he didn’t matter, wasn’t needed, and wasn’t universally admired.
The cab pulled into the drive of his mansion. It was dark outside, there was no light shining from the interior, and the whole profile of the place was cold and unwelcoming. An empty house to greet an empty soul. His servants were not present to unload his luggage, so he was forced to pay the cab driver extra to carry out the chore for him. He didn’t unpack, made straight for bed of mind that the next day would bring better thoughts and fresh hope.
*
Day 2, Farquhar mansion, Windsor, England
He passed a restless night, during which his slumbers were arrested by a recurring dream. In the dream he was trying to make a perfect cuppa, but with the eyes of England’s dead heroes watching. Try as he might he just could not manage the task: he either removed the leaves too soon leaving the tea flaccid and weak, or he left it to long leaving the tannin taste of stewed leaves. Every time he failed a grumble was issued by the watchers and the perspiration settled on his body and the pressure built, and soon his hands fumbled and the tea was spilt and...
He tried, but could not shake the dream from his thoughts. He brooded over a melancholic breakfast that comprised a few morsels interjected by the occasional sip of breakfast tea. Not even freshly baked scones with proper Cornish clotted cream could alter his state of mind; it was disconcerting; he felt desperate and at his wits end.
He checked his answering machine expecting an overloaded inbox to improve his mood. He hit the button, “no new messages” crackled the robotic voice. He frowned. No new messages? It has been six weeks since he had left England for his great pilgrimage to America, to the land of hope and opportunity, where the grass was always green, and conquest and glory awaited him. Six weeks and not a single message of support, of encouragement, of sympathy; not a single “well done, old chap”, or a “stick to them yankee poodles, old boy”, or “chin up, old son, you’ll get them soon enough”.
Of course. The letterbox. It should be packed with letters, after all wasn’t the aristocratic man of leisure personified as the man of letters. With relish and excitement he opened the letterbox to find.................................nothing: no fan mail; no adoring love letters perfumed by the lascivious ladies of the land; no call to the royal court or request to speak at the House of Commons; no school children seeking some inspiration words; not so much as a supermarket or an envelope needing opening by his glorious hands. Crestfallen, he sat and he wept; in his mind he could hear the sound of Morrissey’s voice singing the soundtrack of his life.
*
Day 3, The Quintessentially English Wrestling Gym, Windsor, England
It just wasn’t getting any better. Five weeks ago he waltzed into APW and he felt on top of the world; now he felt like a piece of hot garbage. Today’s training had been a complete disaster. Four local bums were called in to be used as cannon fodder.
“Suplex them into the ground my son, that will make you feel ten times better,” or so his coach has told him.
So he tried, but try as he might he just couldn’t do it. Reversal after reversal left him deflated and feeling totally abject. He couldn’t even manage a simple arm drag, and to top it off one of the bums even managed to counter him with his own finishing move.
He cried again, not so much quintessentially English as quintessentially tearful. He could not be comforted, not by his coach, not even by a freshly brewed pot of Earl Grey tea. But then the sweat boy had put the milk in first and this would be enough to crush the spirits of even the most hardened man.
The trainer sent him home early, but there was nothing doing to make him feel any better. He had failed; he couldn’t even beat a couple of punks barely worthy of polishing his boots, so how could he possibly expect to deliver on the biggest night of his career against one of the best competitors on the roster. Fed up he went home and straight to bed; it didn’t take long before sleep overcame him.
*
Julius Farquhar woke with a start, his face and hair soaked with sweat. What had happened? He felt disoriented and there was a buzzing in his head that felt uncomfortable. He reached across to his bedside table but it was beyond his reach. He tried to turn over, but something prevented him from doing so. He opened his eyes and to his surprise he was not in his bed, but was seated on an airplane, the safety belt restricting his movement. His flickered around the cabin, trying to absorb every detail in search of one that may aide some recollection – how had he got here? He clearly remembered getting into bed, but now found himself trapped into the seat of his private airplane. Suddenly, the stewardess approached.
“Sir, we have now arrived at London Heathrow,” she said, “you should be able to alight in just a few minutes.”
London Heathrow? But hadn’t he arrived here three days ago? What was going on?
Then it dawned upon him; it had all been a dream. No, not a dream, but some terrible awful nightmare, as though planted by some devilish Cartesian demon to trick him into believing some wicked illusion. It was all a dream. He was not a loser, a terrible failure, some chump used to put over a bright, sparkier kid. There was nobody brighter and with more spark than he. He was Julius Farquhar, quintessentially English, and indubitably the most interesting character in the whole of professional wrestling. He was the future; a messiah sent with a prophecy that would change the cultural zeitgeist forever.
In less than two weeks he will be undertaking his great challenge yet, which should become his greatest achievement yet. He had lost a few matches, so what? Everyone suffers loss every now and then, but a couple of television setbacks were nothing to cry about, and mother had always taught him never to cry over spilt milk. On December 18th he was going pay-per-view, he was going international! The flag match would be the perfect stage in which to begin his legacy; a daring encounter in which the APW’s boy wonder and ‘next big hope’ would be crushed; a celebration of the quintessentially English, and the sight of him raising the cross of St. George to become an eternal symbol, a moment of transformation on a par with the beginning of Hulkamania and the immortal that was born of the words “Austin 3:16 says...”
He smiled to himself at the folly of his imagination. From now on he would leave the doubts to those idiots who want to indulge them. He unclipped the seat belt and made for the exit upon the instruction of the stewardess. The noise of the gathered posse of adoring fans filled ears before his vision was engulfed by a sea of red and white. The noise was like music to ears; a music more powerful than the constructions of Elgar or Parry. It was the imperial sound.
JULIUS
JULIUS
JULIUS
JULIUS
He stepped out, arms outstretched and the crowd roared, the cameras flashed, the paparazzi wrestled for space, the news reporters spoke excitedly, and the land was filled with joy. Caesar had returned to Rome, and in 13 days he would cross the Tiber of APW, armed, and begin his ruthless and unprecedented dictatorship over Zachary Rodell.
As soon as the plane landed he felt much better about himself. The novelty of being back in England revitalised him. He felt stronger, wiser and more at peace. He was looking forward to a reception from the home crowd.
The private jet came to a standstill and the air crew completed all their procedures. Julius Farquhar was home at last, spending a week in more familiar terrain, amongst friends, family and his English fans – what better way to prepare for your APW pay-per-view debut than this?
The hostess opened the door and Julius stepped forward, arms outstretched, anticipating the welcome for a messiah. He stepped through the door to be greeted by a typically grey English day consisting of blanket cloud, that English drizzle that persists like a disobedient toddler seeking attention, and a cold that didn’t hurt like the freeze of the world’s most frostbitten places, but a cold that soaked into the bones and could not be shaken off from the time you arrived to the time you left. There was no procession of ecstatic fans, no flash-flash-flash of the expectant paparazzi. Just the hostess, a few brow-beaten members of the airport’s ground crew, and the obviously incompetent PR executive hired to ‘handle’ Julius Farquhar’s return to his homeland.
“Mr. Farquhar,” the executive slithered, “welcome home”.
This is not exactly the welcome I had in mind.
“Hmmm, I am terribly sorry.”
Where are my fans? Where are the paparazzi probing my nether regions for the latest scoop? Where is the red carpet? Where is the Prime Minister to personally greet a national hero? Why am I not going deaf from the screams and howls of young starry-eyed children? Why are women not throwing themselves at me, ripping at my $3000 trousers to get a good handful of my quintessential manliness?
“I’m so sorry Mr. Farquhar.”
Where is my silver service? The Fortnum & Mason delivery service? Did I not order tea and crumpets on arrival? Did I not demand a welcome befitting a man of my stature?
“You did Mr. Farquhar, I am terribly sorry.”
Manservant, deal with this cretin please. Where is my limo?
“Uh, no limo service I am afraid Mr. Farquhar, but I can hail a taxi for you.”
Julius Farquhar storms off across the concrete and into the terminal. He doesn’t get very far before he is spotted by a member of Joe public.
“Hey Jules!”
It’s Mr. Farquhar.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ve seen you wrestling on that APW.”
Good. I knew I could count on the ordinary folk of England recognising a true national icon.
“Yeah, yeah. I saw you got owned by that Mr. Dangerous.”
The man starts to laugh. Julius, irate, starts to storm off. The man calls out to him.
“Hey, come on Jules, it’s just a giggle, bruv. Come on, do me a favour?”
Julius stops, and flashing a smile returns to the man.
“Can I get an autograph?”
Of course. I knew you were a fan. What do you want me to sign?
“You sign? I want you to sign nothing, I thought you might be able to get me C.J. Gates’ autograph and send it to this address.”
The man hands Julius a card with a name and address and walks off in a fit of giggles.
*
The cab ride back to his mansion was tortuous. It was the first occasion in weeks in which he had time to think, to reflect on his time as a professional wrestler in APW, to deliberate his merits and faults. It was certainly the case that things had not gone so well. Four matches and just one victory; a solitary victory against a lame duck; a man who may as well have not turned up for all the effort he put in. Then it was defeat to Warren Peace, the kid who has proved that he alone was the one to watch from APW’s new breed. Nathaniel Havok was the established and seasoned professional who put Julius firmly in his place, even if Havok did need outside assistance. Even Mr. Dangerous, in his own way, got one over him. It was a positively depressing state of affairs; a losing run the like of which he had never before encountered in the whole of his life. He looked around the APW roster and he smelt a lot of garbage, but what if it was he who was stinking the place out? Could he, Julius Farquhar, the world’s first and only quintessentially English wrestler, really be considered a loser and a failure? Was he the worst that APW had to offer? Jobber to the future stars? A joke that surpassed in hilarity even Adam Young’s pretentions to World Heavyweight Championship contendership? It was pestilence for his soul this feeling of pure redundancy; a feeling that he didn’t matter, wasn’t needed, and wasn’t universally admired.
The cab pulled into the drive of his mansion. It was dark outside, there was no light shining from the interior, and the whole profile of the place was cold and unwelcoming. An empty house to greet an empty soul. His servants were not present to unload his luggage, so he was forced to pay the cab driver extra to carry out the chore for him. He didn’t unpack, made straight for bed of mind that the next day would bring better thoughts and fresh hope.
*
Day 2, Farquhar mansion, Windsor, England
He passed a restless night, during which his slumbers were arrested by a recurring dream. In the dream he was trying to make a perfect cuppa, but with the eyes of England’s dead heroes watching. Try as he might he just could not manage the task: he either removed the leaves too soon leaving the tea flaccid and weak, or he left it to long leaving the tannin taste of stewed leaves. Every time he failed a grumble was issued by the watchers and the perspiration settled on his body and the pressure built, and soon his hands fumbled and the tea was spilt and...
He tried, but could not shake the dream from his thoughts. He brooded over a melancholic breakfast that comprised a few morsels interjected by the occasional sip of breakfast tea. Not even freshly baked scones with proper Cornish clotted cream could alter his state of mind; it was disconcerting; he felt desperate and at his wits end.
He checked his answering machine expecting an overloaded inbox to improve his mood. He hit the button, “no new messages” crackled the robotic voice. He frowned. No new messages? It has been six weeks since he had left England for his great pilgrimage to America, to the land of hope and opportunity, where the grass was always green, and conquest and glory awaited him. Six weeks and not a single message of support, of encouragement, of sympathy; not a single “well done, old chap”, or a “stick to them yankee poodles, old boy”, or “chin up, old son, you’ll get them soon enough”.
Of course. The letterbox. It should be packed with letters, after all wasn’t the aristocratic man of leisure personified as the man of letters. With relish and excitement he opened the letterbox to find.................................nothing: no fan mail; no adoring love letters perfumed by the lascivious ladies of the land; no call to the royal court or request to speak at the House of Commons; no school children seeking some inspiration words; not so much as a supermarket or an envelope needing opening by his glorious hands. Crestfallen, he sat and he wept; in his mind he could hear the sound of Morrissey’s voice singing the soundtrack of his life.
*
Day 3, The Quintessentially English Wrestling Gym, Windsor, England
It just wasn’t getting any better. Five weeks ago he waltzed into APW and he felt on top of the world; now he felt like a piece of hot garbage. Today’s training had been a complete disaster. Four local bums were called in to be used as cannon fodder.
“Suplex them into the ground my son, that will make you feel ten times better,” or so his coach has told him.
So he tried, but try as he might he just couldn’t do it. Reversal after reversal left him deflated and feeling totally abject. He couldn’t even manage a simple arm drag, and to top it off one of the bums even managed to counter him with his own finishing move.
He cried again, not so much quintessentially English as quintessentially tearful. He could not be comforted, not by his coach, not even by a freshly brewed pot of Earl Grey tea. But then the sweat boy had put the milk in first and this would be enough to crush the spirits of even the most hardened man.
The trainer sent him home early, but there was nothing doing to make him feel any better. He had failed; he couldn’t even beat a couple of punks barely worthy of polishing his boots, so how could he possibly expect to deliver on the biggest night of his career against one of the best competitors on the roster. Fed up he went home and straight to bed; it didn’t take long before sleep overcame him.
*
Julius Farquhar woke with a start, his face and hair soaked with sweat. What had happened? He felt disoriented and there was a buzzing in his head that felt uncomfortable. He reached across to his bedside table but it was beyond his reach. He tried to turn over, but something prevented him from doing so. He opened his eyes and to his surprise he was not in his bed, but was seated on an airplane, the safety belt restricting his movement. His flickered around the cabin, trying to absorb every detail in search of one that may aide some recollection – how had he got here? He clearly remembered getting into bed, but now found himself trapped into the seat of his private airplane. Suddenly, the stewardess approached.
“Sir, we have now arrived at London Heathrow,” she said, “you should be able to alight in just a few minutes.”
London Heathrow? But hadn’t he arrived here three days ago? What was going on?
Then it dawned upon him; it had all been a dream. No, not a dream, but some terrible awful nightmare, as though planted by some devilish Cartesian demon to trick him into believing some wicked illusion. It was all a dream. He was not a loser, a terrible failure, some chump used to put over a bright, sparkier kid. There was nobody brighter and with more spark than he. He was Julius Farquhar, quintessentially English, and indubitably the most interesting character in the whole of professional wrestling. He was the future; a messiah sent with a prophecy that would change the cultural zeitgeist forever.
In less than two weeks he will be undertaking his great challenge yet, which should become his greatest achievement yet. He had lost a few matches, so what? Everyone suffers loss every now and then, but a couple of television setbacks were nothing to cry about, and mother had always taught him never to cry over spilt milk. On December 18th he was going pay-per-view, he was going international! The flag match would be the perfect stage in which to begin his legacy; a daring encounter in which the APW’s boy wonder and ‘next big hope’ would be crushed; a celebration of the quintessentially English, and the sight of him raising the cross of St. George to become an eternal symbol, a moment of transformation on a par with the beginning of Hulkamania and the immortal that was born of the words “Austin 3:16 says...”
He smiled to himself at the folly of his imagination. From now on he would leave the doubts to those idiots who want to indulge them. He unclipped the seat belt and made for the exit upon the instruction of the stewardess. The noise of the gathered posse of adoring fans filled ears before his vision was engulfed by a sea of red and white. The noise was like music to ears; a music more powerful than the constructions of Elgar or Parry. It was the imperial sound.
JULIUS
JULIUS
JULIUS
JULIUS
He stepped out, arms outstretched and the crowd roared, the cameras flashed, the paparazzi wrestled for space, the news reporters spoke excitedly, and the land was filled with joy. Caesar had returned to Rome, and in 13 days he would cross the Tiber of APW, armed, and begin his ruthless and unprecedented dictatorship over Zachary Rodell.
