Good Television

An empty arena. Not the kind where the lights are dancing around the ceiling and some production assistant is shouting into a headset pretending they're making history. This is the empty that exists after everybody's gone home. The empty where every footstep echoes. The empty where thousands of seats sit motionless in the darkness like gravestones. The empty where the atmosphere takes over and you're not entirely sure where silence begins and a second-dimensional being enters.   The ring sits illuminated in the distance. Danny Christie sits alone several rows back from the hard camera. Not in the ring and certainly not under a spotlight. Not where he's supposed to be. He's just another seat amongst thousands lost in the order. The camera slowly approaches and Danny Christie doesn't move, smile, nor acknowledge it. His eyes remain fixed on the ring. Danny Christie: Let's make no mistake. Let's call it exactly what it is. Calling a spade-a-spade. Pulling no punches, here... Being as honest as the day, me. Because whilst we're being totally honest, it's fair to say you know exactly what you're getting when Danny Christie appears on your television. on the ACE Network. Not what you hope you're getting. Not what you tell your friends you're getting. But what you're actually getting.. The truth. It's not always pretty, I can guarantee you that. It's not sophisticated. It's not always the best advertisement for PRIME- let alone professional wrestling. It's not the sort of thing wrestling purists write poems about.. Like a love letter from Hughie Freeman to Lindsay Troy. Nobody's sitting there stroking their chin afterwards discussing wrist control and technical excellence. Nobody's rushing to create a two hour radio show about ring positioning and psychology when Daniel Christie is in action. It's exactly what it says on the label. With no hidden ingredients, fancy packaging or false advertising. The trailer and cold open never oversell the product. What you see is what you get. Car crash television like it's meant to be. The sort of television people pretend they don't watch. The sort of television people swear they're above.The sort of television people complain about whilst somehow knowing every single detail afterwards. Quoting their favourite parts. And here's the funny part. You watch anyway. You're a secret lover to whatever "Fair Game" Danny Christie does. And.. That's the bit people don't like admitting. Because everybody claims they're above it. Everybody claims they're more sophisticated than that. Everybody claims they're interested in the purest form of competition. But the eye-test never lies. Truth will always prevail- especially with a smack in the gob. Danny laughs quietly. Danny Christie: Human beings are funny creatures. They tell themselves one thing. Then they do another. They tell themselves they enjoy culture- then spend an hour watching strangers argue. They tell themselves they enjoy sophistication- then become completely engrossed in somebody else's public disaster. They tell themselves they value artistry- then spend half their weekend slowing down on the motorway to stare at an accident. The biggest car crash of them all. That's television. Good television anyway. This motherfucker was built on Bobby Dean's tits and belly and you just don't want to admit it. The enjoyment of eggs is why there's an industry today. And pillow fights..? You're just as giddy as Big John Pepper was during that wonderful live exposé.  People remember emotion, chaos and conflict. They want the blood even if they're hiding behind their sofas. People remember the things that made them feel something. To feel every punch thrown- that's one step closer to being alive. But people lie. It's been over a month since ReVival 87. May 15th. A lifetime ago in wrestling, according to the experts and according to the people that think they've got all this figured out. The same people who apparently know what makes good television. See, according to them, if you're gone for a few weeks people forget. Out of sight and out of mind. That's the phrase, isn't it? The audience moves on and so does business. The constant need to be working week in and week out is- I will tell you- a mugs game. Yet somehow... People kept talking. Daniel Christie has snippets of time on television to sell a dream. Sell you a fight on a farm. Some people had championship matches and personal rivalries. Some people had entire stories unfolding right in front of everybody's eyes. Yet somehow people still wanted to know what happened next with Danny Christie. Because good television creates anticipation. And by me working less- it makes the PRIME faithful want more. Like the screen is stuck permanently on "To Be Continued.." and you can't wait for some bum to accept a fight on a farm. As all of this razzamatazz stays behind the curtain. The raw emotion sells itself.

The special effects only make the content weaker. Sometimes the thing people want most... Is the answer. The answer to a question and the unfinished business. The answer to whether somebody's going to answer the bloody phone, eh? Funny thing is, this was never about the person- you know who I mean if you are up to date with PRIME news, and he's not worth the airtime. Names come and go. Wrestlers come and go. Champions come and go.  And yet the principle remains- that's what sticks. Everybody talks about wanting competition, wanting the biggest fights, wanting Ultraviolence. Great speech. Gets a reaction. Until the opportunity actually shows up- and suddenly people get busy, schedules get complicated, messages stop getting answered.  That doesn't bother me because my feelings are hurt. It bothers me because disrespect spreads. That's how rot starts- one ignored call, then another, until nobody wants to do business. Everybody wants the rewards, nobody wants the risk. Everybody wants the glory, nobody wants the consequences. And that's how the whole thing rots from the inside out.. FUCK YOU.

The screen flickers. *** A traveller caravan. Early nineteen-nineties. Somewhere in Britain. Somewhere rural. Somewhere forgotten. The kind of place where directions are given using landmarks instead of street names: turn left at the fallen tree, carry on past the burnt-out tractor, and if you've reached the gate with the horse missing an eye, you've gone too far. Rain taps steadily against the aluminium roof- a constant drumming, soft enough to fade into background noise, loud enough to never fully disappear. Inside, the caravan feels smaller than it should. The walls are covered in wood panelling that's absorbed decades of cigarette smoke. The curtains don't quite meet in the middle. The carpet has seen more years than some professional wrestlers. A kettle whistles somewhere off-camera. A dog snores beneath a table. The whole place smells faintly of tobacco, damp clothes, and fried food- the kind of smell that follows you home whether you want it to or not. Against one wall sits a tiny portable television, half static, half picture- the television equivalent of surviving on sheer determination. Cross-legged on the floor sits a young Danny Christie, completely engrossed, not blinking, not moving, the blue glow reflecting in his eyes. Behind him sits somebody else- never fully seen, just a hand. A hand holding a remote control. And that's important. Because Danny isn't choosing what he's watching. Somebody else is. CLICK. The television changes channel. The audience erupts. A cheap studio set, bright lights, a giant crowd- and standing in the middle of absolute chaos is Fred Dick. Cheap suit, cheap tie, the confidence of a man who has no business being that confident. Fred Dick: "Tonight on The Fred Dick Show—" The audience explodes before he can even finish. Somewhere off-camera a chair gets launched. Security starts sprinting. Somebody's crying, somebody's screaming, somebody's definitely lying. Fred grins like a pig that's just found an unattended trough. CLICK. New channel - Jackass. Fred stands beside a shopping trolley full of fireworks, and the trolley's already on fire. Nobody seems concerned, least of all Fred, who gives the camera a thumbs up before the footage cuts away from whatever disaster comes next. CLICK. Cartoons — Beavis and Butt-Head, except both characters are Fred Dick, laughing hysterically at nothing on a couch. Young Danny stays completely absorbed. CLICK. A cooking show. Fred stands proudly behind the counter as a chicken rotates in the oven. Smoke starts appearing, then flames, more flames- and Fred just keeps presenting like nothing's wrong. CLICK. A wildlife documentary. Fred crouches in a bush, only his eyes visible. Fred Dick: "Here is a daft stoopid lizard looking thing." A squirrel launches itself directly into his face. The documentary ends abruptly. CLICK. A late-night dating show. Fred on a leopard-print sofa, top button undone, far too much confidence and far too little shame. CLICK. A religious programme. Fred stands behind the pulpit in white, arms raised to the heavens. Fred Dick: "Brothers and sisters-" The church roof collapses. CLICK. A shopping channel. Fred tries to sell a wheelbarrow and the wheel falls off immediately. CLICK. A game show. Fred spins the prize wheel, it detaches and vanishes into the crowd, and he applauds anyway. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. The channels keep changing. The remote never stops. The search continues- looking for something better. CLICK. Fred. CLICK. Fred. CLICK. Fred. CLICK. Fred. The television's been infected. Every road leads back to Fred Dick. Fred Dick shows up as a detective investigating a murder he's obviously committed himself. Danny continues: That's what everyone tells themselves — that they're looking for quality, sophistication, substance, something they can feel proud watching. But eventually people stop searching. Not because they've found something respectable, but because they've found something impossible to ignore. Young Danny never moves, never blinks, never looks away. The unseen hand changes the channel again. CLICK. For the first time- no Fred Dick. A wrestling ring appears. The channel lands on PRIME. The remote stops moving. Young Danny stays locked onto the screen. The rain keeps falling, the kettle keeps whistling, the dog keeps sleeping- but the channel never changes again. A terrible backdrop of the universe with some planets and stars in stillness. Then- from out of nowhere- a jacuzzi flies in on the screen SPACECUZZI~! Bubbles everywhere as it zips and zooms throughout the solar system with such excitement and vigour. Until ultimately it stops and hovers- Fred Dick peers from out of it, only his eyes and forehead are visible. The rest.. he's drinking it.

He's drinking it in. The PRIME logo glows on the old television. The screen begins flickering. *** Grey daylight takes their place- the kind that never quite commits to being morning. A pig farm. Mud, fences, puddles, the distant grind of machinery. The smell arrives before anything else does- it practically reaches through the screen. Danny Christie stands alone in a pig pen. Rubber boots, old jeans, shovel in hand, an overflowing wheelbarrow beside him. Actually working- not posing, not under spotlights, not delivering speeches. Just working. The shovel bites into the mud, load after load, the kind of labour that becomes muscle memory, the kind where you stop counting the hours because it makes no difference. Danny Christie: That smell. Picture it- driving down the motorway on a hot summer's day, roof down, sun out, arm hanging out the window, life's good. Then suddenly: pig shit. Not old pig shit. Not yesterday's. Fresh, straight from the source. The kind of smell that doesn't go through your nose- it goes through your soul. He throws another load into the wheelbarrow. Danny Christie: Welcome to the farm. A pig squeals in the distance. Then another. Then another, like they're joining in. Danny Christie: Funny thing about this place- people love talking about it, watching it, hearing the stories. But ask them to actually step inside? Suddenly everyone's got somewhere else to be. That's wrestling. Everybody talks a good game- competition, violence, Ultraviolence, how tough they supposedly are. Then someone actually asks them to prove it, and out come the excuses: the scheduling conflicts, the misunderstandings, the messages that never get answered, the convenient disappearing acts. The camera widens to reveal Fred Dick, sat backwards on a pig, cowboy boots and hat, gripping the reins like a man with no business near livestock. The pig looks exhausted. Fred looks thrilled. He points dramatically at the horizon, yells something nobody can understand, and salutes. Danny ignores him completely. Danny Christie: Everybody wants to watch The Old Fashioned Straightener. Nobody wants to sign up for it. That's the contradiction. They'll tune in, buy the ticket, gather round- but ask for their name on the dotted line, and suddenly it's a different story. Fred kicks the pig's sides. The pig refuses to budge. Danny keeps working. Danny Christie: And honestly, I get it. There's no upside. No five-star reviews, no wrestling journalists writing essays about your chain wrestling, no applause from the smart-mark crowd, no nod from the people who think wrestling should be done in silence while someone takes notes. The shovel rises and falls. Danny Christie: Just risk. Just consequences. Just the chance you end up flat on your back wondering where it went wrong. Which is probably why people relate to it- not because it's glamorous, but because it's honest. Here's what people miss about me. They think it's the violence- it isn't. Violence is easy. Anyone can throw a punch, anyone can lose their temper. What people actually connect with is disrespect. Everyone knows that feeling. You've worked harder than someone else and watched them take the reward. Stayed loyal while someone else took the credit. Put in the hours while someone else got the promotion. Answered every call while someone else got the opportunity. People understand that because they've lived it. He goes back to shovelling. The wheelbarrow's nearly full. Danny Christie: That's why the audience connects- they're not watching a superhero, they're watching themselves. The bloke who shows up every day. Who does the work. Who keeps pulling the cart. The workhorse. Funny thing about a workhorse- nobody celebrates it, nobody thanks it, nobody checks how it's doing, nobody hangs medals on it. They just keep piling weight on its back and expect it to keep moving. Fred rides past behind him, still backwards, still shouting, still contributing nothing. Danny Christie: That's fine, though. Because eventually people notice when it stops. That's the funny part — nobody notices it working. They notice when it's gone. The camera follows the wheelbarrow, mud dripping off the sides — heavy, unpleasant, necessary. Danny Christie: That's why May fifteenth matters. Not because I wasn't wrestling- because I wasn't there. And people noticed. Not right away. But eventually. Because the conversation always circles back- back to the farm, back to the fight, back to Danny Christie. Back to the thing everybody swears they don't want, yet can't stop talking about. Fred finally gets the pig moving- for about three seconds, before it throws him straight into the mud. He vanishes completely; only his boots stick out. Danny doesn't even look over. Danny Christie: Which brings me to Ria Lockhart. Because unlike most people- she answered. That's worth something. Maybe more than people realise. In a business full of people talking about fights, she actually accepted one. That still means something to me. The wind moves across the farm. Danny stares out over the fields- the humour gone, the smile gone. A pig squeals somewhere far off. Fred's boots are still sticking out of the mud. The screen begins to fade- not to black, but to gold. To sunlight. To morning. To the final act. *** A vast stretch of open countryside sits beneath the first light of morning. The world feels different at this hour. Honest. Nobody's performing. Nobody's pretending. The arguments haven't started yet. The phones haven't started ringing. The day hasn't had a chance to disappoint anybody. Just silence. The horizon glows orange. Long shadows stretch across the fields. A tractor sits alone overlooking miles of farmland. Danny Christie sits behind the wheel. Engine off. Motionless. Watching the sunrise. No Fred Dick. No pig. No comedy. Just Danny. Just the sort of silence that only exists when a man is left alone with his thoughts. The camera slowly approaches. Danny never takes his eyes off the horizon. Danny Christie: Strange thing about waiting. You don't realise how much time you've spent doing it until it's over. Waiting for opportunities. Waiting for answers. Waiting for respect. Waiting for somebody to prove you wrong. Waiting for somebody to prove you right. Waiting for somebody to finally show you who they are. That's what this entire thing has been. Waiting. Waiting to see who would answer the call. Waiting to see who still believed in competition. Waiting to see who still believed in fighting. Not talking about fighting. Not tweeting about fighting. Not cutting a promo about fighting. Actually fighting. The wind rolls gently across the fields. Danny Christie: Somewhere along the way that became rare. And that's a shame. Because this business was built on confrontation. Not avoidance. It was built on proving things. Not discussing them. It was built on stepping forward. Not stepping aside. Danny finally looks towards the camera. Danny Christie: That's why I respect Ria Lockhart. Not because she's perfect. Not because I agree with everything she says. Not because we're cut from the same cloth. Because when the opportunity arrived... she answered. Simple. No grand speech. No political manoeuvring. No disappearing act. No excuses. She answered. And you'd be surprised how much I value that these days. Because respect isn't something I hand out freely. It's earned. And whether this ends well for either of us... whether one of us is standing at the end of it... whether one of us is carried away afterwards... that respect remains. But respect has never stopped violence before. The words hang in the air. Danny looks back towards the horizon. Danny Christie: The funny thing is... people are going to watch Ultraviolence for all sorts of reasons. Some will watch because they support Ria. Some will watch because they support me. Some will watch because they enjoy violence. Some will watch because they're hoping to see somebody humbled. Some will watch because they genuinely care who wins. And some... some will watch for the exact same reason they always do. Curiosity. Because despite everything you've heard... despite everything you've been told... despite all the opinions... you still don't know what's going to happen. That's the secret. That's always been the secret. Not certainty. Uncertainty. That's what keeps people watching. That's what keeps people invested. That's what keeps them talking. Fred Dick caught with his pants down is all apart of good television. The camera slowly moves around the tractor. The fields stretching endlessly behind him. Danny Christie: It's why they kept talking after ReVival 87. It's why they kept talking when I wasn't wrestling. It's why they kept talking when I wasn't even on television. Because people wanted the next chapter. People wanted the ending. People wanted to know where the story was going. And now we're here. Ultraviolence. A fitting name. Because eventually everything becomes Ultraviolence. The frustration. The disrespect. The waiting. The resentment. The anticipation. It all ends up in the same place eventually. It all finds the same destination. Danny rests both hands on the steering wheel. Danny Christie: I've spent this entire promo talking about television. Talking about attention. Talking about what people watch. Talking about why they watch. Talking about why some things become impossible to ignore. Here's the truth. The simplest truth of all. The reason none of it ever changes. People stop changing channels when Danny Christie appears. Not because they like me. Not because they hate me. Not because they agree with me. Not because they understand me. Because they cannot ignore me. They never have. You can call it violence. You can call it chaos. You can call it stupidity. You can call it whatever helps you sleep at night. But you'll still watch. Just like you've always watched- in the colosseum or on my dad's farm. Human nature hasn't changed and It never will. And at Ultraviolence... neither will I. The engine suddenly rumbles to life. The tractor shakes beneath him. The sun now sits fully above the horizon. Danny Christie: Ria Lockhart. You've got my respect. Unfortunately for both of us... respect was never the objective. The objective was always good television. The tractor begins moving. Slowly at first. Then steadily. Driving directly towards the rising sun. Danny Christie: And nobody does that better than me. The camera remains still.

Danny Christie: It's true. Ultraviolence will see the death of a career. But the memory wont be of the mega force that once lived in Eastern Europe that dominated in PRIME. Meeting his ultimate demise.

It will be the memory of you........ and me.

And what happened on that farm.