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Fatty Facesitter

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About Fatty Facesitter

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    Jeremy Goss
  • Birthday 12/16/1988

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    Nicksellers88@aol.co.uk
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    London, on loan from Norfolk

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  1. 🎶 We’re really glad that you’re our friend, and this is a friendship that will never ever end! 🎶
  2. Fatty Facesitter's Crucible Diary - Day 2! 10:00 - After the madness of Mark Williams' mad ramblings the night before, it's a much calmer press room on the second morning here. Hopes of an early finish are in store - following Neil Robertson's 9-0 humping of Michael Georgiou the day before, he only needs one frame to win his evening session at 19:00. As long as the match on table two finishes at a reasonable hour, that means it's out on the lash on Easter Sunday. Look out Sheffield, I say to myself, lock up your daughters (and your sons!) because the snooker mob are going to go big! 11:00 - Terry Griffiths is deep in conversation with the Betfred girls in the press room, donned in a Stone Island jacket. He swoons. They laugh. El Tel clearly absolutely drowned in it in his day, and probably still does. "Oldest ride, longest lines" I think to myself. 13:00 - Ding Dong! Ding Junhui becomes the second man through. The Chinese press in the media centre go absolutely fucking insane. Ding, actually a Sheffield resident, is a genuine rockstar in his native China. Imagine Justin Beiber wandering the streets of LA, The Rock strolling around Miami, Delia Smith strutting through Norwich - the the flock of people that would attract in an instant, and you get an idea of his star power. A very likeable, down to Earth, sweet man, who perhaps has to do more media than anyone else as a consequence of his bi-linguality. After his multi-lingual conference, he then does this interview with World Snooker - where Rob Walker passes him a bottle of champagne (every match winner gets one here this year). Ding promises to smash all five after the final. LAD. (Cut to 3:06) 14:00 - One of my favourite up and comers is about to enter the Crucible for the first time. Luo Honghao, another Chinese player, has a fantastic cue action and has run several of the big names close in his matches this season, including The Rocket. But even BETTER than that, he plays with a Kevin Nash-Diesel esque black glove, wears mental spiked shoes and plays the piano like an absolute champion. I christen him as snooker's next big rockstar for all of the reasons above. Mixed responses. But I'm confident he'll give an out-of-form Shaun Murphy a good game today. 18:00 - Murphy has absolutely fucking wiped the floor Luo, winning the session 9-0, and my boy is on course for a record low points total and defeat. Fuck's sake! Meanwhile, the titanic clash between Gary Wilson and Luca Brecel has ran so long it's been called off, despite the match being 9-8 in Wilson's favour. 21:00 - Robertson is done crushing Georgiou. The latter actually gets a wonderful reception from the crowd as he enters the arena, which is a really nice touch. Safe to say this is a babyface Crucible crowd today. He comes through for his conference. Far from being downbeat, he loved his Crucible experience and couldn't have been more complimentary about his opponent. We fall hopelessly in love. Robertson looks every inch the favourite to win this year. Apart from his awful 90's boyband barnet, he's in blistering form having won several titles and appeared in several finals this season. That, coupled with an engagement and a new baby girl, mean the stars are aligning for him. I think back to how the governing body look forward to Williams' demise as their champion and can't help but feel they view the media-friendly Aussie as the man they'd like to see take his mantle. Meanwhile, Brecel/Wilson just won't end. They come back out and battle on. And on. And on. And fucking on... 22:00 - And on - both are locked in a safety battle that just won't die. The reds are all bunched together on the bottom cushion - the colours are getting bunched together in the baulk end, forming something of a barrier and a prime target for snookers. Stephan Maguire is making a meal of his match on Table 2. Tonight's big booze up is well out of the window at this point. Having had no sleep the night before, my body literally starts to give up on me. My arms feel limp, my eyelids are like sandpaper. They warned me there would be some late nights, but I wasn't expecting this sort of carnage two days in. Hazel enters the press room for a quick catch up with old friends. She's in it for the long haul, the old fox. My love for her doesn't wane. The female Chinese journalist who challenged me on Snooker 19 yesterday comes back into the room. They walk past each other. I take a mental image of the two of them being in the same sphere at the same time. I run to the bogs. 22:30 - It runs so long that it sets a new Crucible record for the longest ever World Championship frame. There are ironic countdowns and cheers in the press room as the cock passes the previous record of 73 minutes and 11 seconds. I spit on them in disgust. It ends, and Gary Wilson, a former Newcastle taxi-driver, knocks out the seeded Brecel. Brecel looks thoroughly pissed off in his press conference. I can't blame him. Imagine playing for that long, in a decider, only to lose at the final hurdle like that. This game is bastard cruel. 23:00 - Maguire's match also runs long and the big booze up is officially cancelled. It's a crestfallen press room. Then all of a sudden, Maguire auditions for botchamania with one of the most jammy fucking flukes ever seen inside such hallowed halls. Son of a bitch! He then goes on to win another decider. Why couldn't he have just done the decent thing and lose while he was 9-7 down, I wonder? Back at the hotel and the youth of Sheffield are causing commotion in the hotel. Staff can't keep control. There's no Pringles left in the snack machine. I run out of lives on my latest Duo Lingo assignment and by this point I'm thoroughly pissed off. Porro! Bed. Bring on on Day 3.
  3. The World Snooker Championships are back back BACK for another year. This is a diary entry about my first Crucible experience, where I'm lucky enough to cover the sport of kings and the hobby of heroes for a fortnight of balls dropping, deep screws with lots of bottom, kissing the pink, gentle nudges on the brown, getting the spider out (?).......you get the picture. Disclaimer: In absolutely no way shape or form is any of this meant to be some sort of elaborate humble brag - these are merely musing and ramblings of an over-excited man-child who's like a pig in chardonnay and has somehow fluked his way into the press room of a tournament he's wanted to cover since shooting out of mother Facesitter's middle bag. Also, there is a LOT of downtime here and I need something to keep me going through the late nights. Also, if this turns out to be shit then obviously delete. Fatty Facesitter's Crucible diary - Day 1 09:00 - I'm like a kid on Christmas morning. I'm walking into the hallowed halls of Sheffield's humble Crucible theatre for the first time! All the memories of watching the beautiful game on the box and the iconic moments from yesteryear come flooding back. The first maximum by Thorburn. Taylor beating the Nugget in the black ball game. Hendry shattering the Whirlwind's dreams. The Rocket wiping out all before him. Peter Ebdon's break of 12. This is the big one and my innards are exploding with excitement. Appropriately, the first snooker personality I see in person at the venue is John Virgo. In his old age he's a miserable old bastard, but I loved his trick shots, batshit metal waistcoats and watching Big Break with the mad racist Jim Davidson as a kid. He was my dear old Nan's favourite, so I took it as a nice little sign from above that my life was coming full circle. 10:00 - Play kicks off. I walk into the venue just before the session starts. Rob Walker, God of MC's in doing the introductions. Think a British Howard Finkel on acid. The arena looks a lot smaller than it does on the box - it's pretty intimate and you can almost touch the players you are so close. Mark Williams, the defending champion who got stark-bollock naked for his post-match press conference after his title win last year, starts against Martin Gould. Williams is the Stone Cold Steve Austin of snooker - he hates authority (as we'll see later), he's a beer-drinking, kebab eating rebel who fans adore because he gives not but a single, solitary fuck. Thinking his career was dying out, he shocked everyone by winning the world title last year, claiming £350,000 in prize money, and spent the next twelve months going on holiday and getting absolutely smashed with his wife. Hero. The players have entrance/walk on music. The cameras follow them from snooker's equivalent of the Gorilla position down a small entrance ramp, lights flashing, and over to their table. Suddenly, two of my passions in life blend together like a lethal cocktail - Gould, who looks like less like a sportsman and more like a guest on Jeremy Kyle, comes out to...The Game by Motorhead?!?! No water spit though - poor form. They also have some daft nicknames, as we'll see later. 12:00 - Hazel Irvine walks past me and smiles in the corridor. She has no idea who on Earth this inbred neckbeard is in front of her, but her courteous, genuine smile makes me day. She is every bit as lovely as she seems. Just a gentle, sweet Scottish flower. I fall hopelessly in love. 13:00 - Snooker 19 has just come out on PS4, and there's a console in the press room. I play a colleague and feather the white on my very first go. Bollocks. BUT, I win the best of three match. Albeit virtually, how many people can say they've won a snooker match at the Crucible? Not many. 14:00 - Autograph hunters have swarmed on someone outside as I go to make a phonecall. Programmes waving wildly in the air, lots of excitable shouting from ladies of a mature age. A towering figure in jet black shades signs away. I take a closer look. Ronnie? Selby? Ding? No...it's only Peter Ebdon, the vegan-powered Brexiteer himself. He's not even in the tournament - was he doing a Virgil, hanging around the arena, unable to get in, trying to live out past glories? 16:00 - Nothing of note happens for a few hours - apart from Neil 'The Thunder from Down Under' Robertson absolutely demolishing Michael Georgiou 9-0 in his first session. The session ends and he has to come back tomorrow to play again - he needs one frame to win. Pointless exercise. Looks to be the favourite on early evidence... 18:00 - It's day 1 of 17 but I can already feel fatigue creeping in. Not a good sign. As fantastic a sport as snooker can be, if a match goes long it really does grind at the soul. The standard of fast-paced potting play really goes up in this tournament, but annoyingly so does the safety play. Which is fine in spells, but when the matches are best of NINETEEN fucking frames in the FIRST ROUND, it makes you queasy. Think the iconic torture scene in A Clockwork Orange. Have I really hit the wall this early? 19:00 - The evening session starts. I go back to the press room and become friends with a lovely, friendly Chinese journalist who challenges me to a quick go on Snooker 19. I fall hopelessly in love. I win the game, obviously. I'm don't lay down for no ho. 22:00 - Stone Cold Mark Williams gets over the line against the King of Kings Martin Gould. Gould comes in for his press conference. The press conferences are usually pretty generic affairs in truth. There's some initial reaction about the match, questions about their next match, maybe a couple of extra tidbits but nothing special. Gould comes out with a great quip about Williams "If he stays off the booze, fags, kebabs and minstrels he's got a good chance." A ringing endorsement. Williams comes in for his conference (fully clothed). He starts off with generic reaction when BAM, turns heel on World Snooker out of nowhere. Unbeknownst to many of us, there was an issue with passes for his family earlier in the day, and on some of the promotional graphics for the tournament he's barely visible, despite being the defending champion. Could it be that there's an agenda at play here from the evil overlords controlling the game? Is there a bid to oust the 44-year old maverick People's Champion with someone more in line with their clean-cut corporate image like a Kyren Wilson or a Judd Trump? Either way, he goes **IN** on them, eyeballing their staffers in the room, calling the whole situation 'pathetic' and 'a load of crap'. This sport is becoming more and more like wrestling before my very eyes. Colourful characters, elaborate entrances, nicknames, SHOOT PROMOS. We haven't even had Brock Le---Ronnie O'Sullivan play yet and already it's all popping off. Roll on the next 16 days.
  4. Thirded. Shat myself with excitement AND fear at the same time. I can't believe this saga's coming to a conclusion already. Doesn't feel like four years since the first* one!
  5. This paragraph was my favourite - "If a season ever occurred when English teams won the Champions League and Europa League - and neither of them qualified for Europe through the league - there would be NINE Premier League teams in Europe (five in the Champions League and four in the Europa League)." Will never happen in a million years obviously but part of me wants to see that now just for the sheer carnage it would cause.
  6. My Dad begrudgingly took me and my best mate to Raw in Manchester back in 2004 - he thinks it's all bollocks and spent the whole night slagging it off, but he thought Ric Flair was the bollocks and loved joining in with all the woos, and got really into the six-man tag main event where Evolution (Ric, Dave, Trippers) faced B?????, Edge and HBK. From that point he would always ask about what he's up to or how he was getting on - I showed him the celebrations from when he won the IC title and he was absolutely pissing himself.
  7. Sami's new direction has a touch of the Mick Foley anti-hardcore promos from ECW about it. There's some real potential for this if they invest in it - it will become same very quickly if he only cuts mopey promos every week about how empty fans are. It would be superb if he brought up different examples of how the crowds are behaving like pricks and doing everything in his power to make people feel bad about it. The old adage about heels being more believable when there's truth behind their words will serve him very well here. Aside from that, great to have him back in general. Along those lines, not sure if anyone's seen this but I hope the chap who took the time to fork out a small fortune for a front row ticket and make a custom made "Roman sucks" T-Shirt enjoyed showing it to him when Reigns comes out for the sendoff. Still clapped when Seth mentioned his return from beating cancer though. What an absolute five star dickhead.
  8. Balor has an uncanny knack that not many of today’s superstars have - he’s a good-looking chap who the birds love, but he’s got a cool factor that the blokes also gravitate to. He’s perfect babyface material in that sense. He also strikes me as genuinely good egg behind the scenes.
  9. Vince McMahon is a really busy chap. He’s an executive of a massive company, travels to nearly every TV taping whilst managing said huge conglomerate and all of it’s respective sub-divisions, and he’s trying to get his other pet project in the XFL off the ground at the same time. At most, someone will have mentioned AEW in passing to him and he’ll have a couple of people keep an eye on it for him and he’ll have heard smatterings about what they’re up to, but to suggest he’s even remotely threatened or arsed about them or their potential at this stage is madness. He was probably as confused as 90% of his audience when the references started during the HOF and probably had to ask someone what those were about, if he even had time to do that considering he’ll have been in full on production mode on the company’s biggest weekend of the year at that point. I want AEW to do well as much as anyone but even with vast sums of cash they couldn’t be further apart and that won’t change for at least a decade as a best-case scenario. On top of the market share, you’re talking about a company that’s got generations of fans behind it and production values that are genuinely better than most feature film studios (give or take the odd bit of shit entrance CGI). On the scale of 1-10 for the amount of fucks Vince gives about them, I’d call it a 1 at best.
  10. Purely from a moments perspective, this is up there with some of the best in recent memory. Kofi's title win was just pure magic with the celebrations at the end with his kids and best mates, Becky lifting both titles aloft was still superb to see, Thuganomic Cena, Seth getting a huge pop for beating Lesnar, then there were at least a couple of spots in almost each match (or at least the end of the match) that were great moments in their own right. However, I genuinely thought the quality of the actual wrestling itself was quite below par. I actually thought Kofi/Bryan was actually quite sloppy and they buggered up some really simple transitions. AJ/Orton and Reigns/McIntyre were lifeless. Batista/HHH was a total abomination when HHH wasn't being a dick. Batista fucked up getting into the bastard ring. Miz/Shane on reflection was actually really shit. The best match on the show was probably the main event, which I was really enjoying right up to the screwed up finish. But that said I can actually live with the in-ring side of things. Wrestlemania is about moments and this one was absolutely choc-full of them. It's a delicate balance to strike because on the one hand the pressure on them is absolutely enormous compared to other shows, and I don't think there's any doubt the performers in question deserve to enjoy themselves while they're on such an amazing platform, so if they're not smashing out five-star classics I think they can be forgiven in most cases. After all, the physical matches don't have to be classics for some of the key moments from them to stand the test of time. And for once there wasn't a single booking decision that puzzled me, and no instance where the crowd could realistically be genuinely pissed off unlike how things have gone down in previous years. It's also easy to forget that one element that fucks us off about these marathon shows is that we're watching them in a tough timeslot. It's been eight years since I attended in person but I can totally understand how if you're there on the night you wouldn't want it to end. I still think five hours max for the main show is absolutely plenty - you could have easily shaved off thirty minutes of fat here and quite possibly more. A strange 'Mania but the moments will make it very memorable in the long run even if the actual matches themselves were pretty cack.
  11. Suzie Dent’s bike seat.
  12. As much as this edition of Takeover hasn’t been to everyone’s taste, it’s pleasing to see we’re almost unanimously in favour of the Dream. Every possibility this is me reading too much into the character and he might be a complete pussycat behind the scenes, but he seems to have serious creative flair with his work and isn’t even remotely afraid to push the boat out, which also makes me think he’d do well on the main roster. He also strikes me as someone who isn’t afraid to ruffle some feathers backstage with regards to his booking - i.e if he thinks something’s beneath him or not in keeping with his character he’d sack it off regardless of any potential backlash. In a way, if word got out that he was being a bit of a primadonna that would only add to his aura and force them into keeping him in a prominent position on the card. He has that swagger about him where he effectively knows he’s mustard and that he’s got more license than most to act like a big shot. Again probably reading far too much into that, but if nothing else he’s excellent in the ring and there’s some huge money to be made with him in the right context.
  13. I'm all for them making it a closed shop if they choose to do that going forward. The only two things I'd say to that are that there are also a lot of fans that go who do act in a respectful way and the actions of a mindless few shouldn't mean they all get tarred with the same brush, and the other thing is that it gives the inductees a chance to have one last meaningful crowd interaction. I didn't actually mind the idea of them putting the stage in the ring as such and you could see the idea behind it in allowing some of the old timers one last proper entrance with the full works. A good idea in practice but I think as a minimum they'll return to the traditional stage setup, which on reflection does look better.
  14. Horrible incident aside I enjoyed most of the HOF. The DX banter was fun. Torrie Wilson's line about being part of our puberty and the open acknowledgement via a standing ovation that we've all had a tug or two over her was as creepy as it was light-hearted. Have a real soft spot for Sue Aitchison as well.
  15. Thankful the dickhead didn’t have a knife or something on him, which I know sounds a bit dramatic but watching it live and the way they cut the feed scared the living delights out of me. All the credit in the world to Bret and Nattie for carrying on and the production crew for getting everything back on track. Great gag from Bret to relieve the anxiety that had filled the arena. Not that I have even the remotest concern for his welfare but I hope the assailant isn’t hurt to the point that there’s any criminal implications for anyone who got shots in on him, if that makes sense. Not even sure what the protocol for that kind of thing would be.
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