First time he'd ever been,

First time he'd ever seen

imaginations running wild brother,

see it to believe it.

 

As British as fish and chips

on a sunny London afternoon.

3 way dance or triple threat,

call it what you like but never forget

the joy,

the elation

the anticipation.

As Ligero drives the crowd wild,

the show stealer got robbed

and Brown went on a rampage.

 

No likey no lighty

with the smoke and mirrors.

People screaming “ARMBAR”

but no headscissors.

The crowd were ecstatic,

it was utter bliss.

It started as it ended

hug hug, kiss kiss.

 

Or how about Jenny becoming dethroned,

try as she might she couldn't hold her own.

The heart was there, but the battle was lost,

The Alpha female showed that she's the boss.

 

I laughed and I smiled as I sat beside ya,

I nicknamed “White Lightning”

just another “Cheap Cider”.

Captain Caveman!

I screamed as out came the boar,

then I cheered for Cooper to win it once more.

Bailey had the crowd in his palm,

he was sure to win.

But when you're climing the ladder

it's sink or swim.

Down to the mat,

shark infested waters.

As they flipped like dolphins,

mothers hide your daughters.

Funny nicknames aside, Andrews won in the end,

the support that he had, the crowd did lend.

 

Lucha Libre in the UK,

exciting the crowd in a very unique way.

Glorious masks and spandex and boots,

latex ladies were looking good too.

The smoke, the hat and the voodoo staff,

I shouted “Papa Shango” and it got a laugh.

There was a half chance that a Britannico would win,

but I said it'd be Metallico from the moment he walked in.

The energy was wild, and the crowd were electric,

Burlesque meets wrestling - lucha libre eclectic.

 

“Shut it Davros” I screamed for a laugh,

as The Director and his megaphone hyped up his act.

Screaming “Singh is King”, but the crowd disagreed

then on galloped Spud like a noble steed.

The crowd rejoiced, and they sang along too,

we were Living on a Prayer, our hopes rested on you.

We were elated when you got the win,

then you jumped to the guardrail

and sang with us again.

 

I had pride in my heart as I watched local grapplers in a technical classic,

true British showmanship if ever you were to have it.

I sat in awe as you traded move with move,

every high spot, every “1”, every “2”.

In the end, the better man won.

Though the battle was over,

the war's only just begun.

 

As the final match came, we were the opposite of mute,

following Kincaide's chant, shouting “Primark Suit”.

“The Anarchist” returned, from whence he came

in order to make British wrestling great again.

The Agenda found money can't buy hearts,

and a title match is only the start.

The British Wrestling Revolution will be televised,

online and in our homes, on video and digitised.

Broadcast to the world, with a triumphant roar,

British wrestling is a sleeping giant no more.