It’s strange how a change of scenery can change yer perception on something eh. I remember a few months back when I first got back intae watching TNA, and I saw Hogan try tae steal the spotlight every fuckin week, chattin aw sorts of shite, gettin folk’s names wrang, forcing his bawjawed daughter on us and just generally ruining TNA from within. He didnae belong there. It’s as simple as that. TNA wis a company known for innovation, and being a viable alternative to the WWE. Never in danger of overtaking it in terms of market share, but a true alternative for wrestling fans. There’s nae space for a deluded auld cunt wae a misplaced sense of importance in a place like that, but in the WWE? Theres always a place. That’s why we’re gonnae continue tae see Triple H work dire WM matches when hes well intae his 50s, and fuds like Batista are tolerated. Cause the WWE is aw about makin that cash money ma man, and for aw his problems, and the current apathy a lot of wrestling fans have for the withered auld toad, he still sells t-shirts. His theme music could still pop any crowd in the world, and I don’t limit that tae wrestling either. Ye could play that fuckin thing at a Lionel Ritchie concert, n ye’d have middle aged wuman tying their blouses roon their heids and grilling youngsters aboot their vitamin and prayer intake. My point wae this wee ramble? Is there ever wan? Anyway, the point is. Hogan opened the show. Hogans theme opened the show, and whilst on the outside I kept the usual calm demeanour thats show me win numerous games of online checkers; on the inside I wis screamin like a wee lassie. A wee lassie who’d just been told she got tickets tae go n see The Singing Kettle no less! (or whitever the fuck weans are intae these days..Clifford The Big Rid Dug or suhin) Ye see when I wis a youngster, all I ever wanted tae be was Hulk Hogan. I thought that wis a real job. When Hulk retired, they’d be haudin vest ripping auditions for his successor. Me.
Pittin this up cause its funny and he’s ma pal, but I refuse tae make anything bold. Nor do I endorse any of the blatantly antagonistic patter towards myself..and you, the audience.
Ahhhh Minneapolis. The city that gave us the greatest musician of all time, now gives us the greatest PPV of February 2014. I say that as if it’s a great city, but these are literally the only 2 significant things to occur in that absolute shitter of a city. I’ve never been, and I widnae want tae. Welcome to my Elimination Chamber review.
Sometimes it disnae matter who emerges from a PPV with the big belts. Even if thats the PPV that shapes the Wrestlemania card more than any other. The belts didnae matter a fuck when this yin ended cause the next generation lets us aw know that they were ready. Its time for the next batch of genuine stars tae take over and lead us intae an era of cunts who captivate us. Cunts who understand the art of storytelling. The type of characters who get on that fuckin mic, and makes ye put down yer Tuna Melt, roll yer chair right next tae the tele so its like he’s cuttin the promo right in yer face. I’m talking about Bray Wyatt. I’m talking about Dean Ambrose. I’m talking about the walking spearing orgasm known as Roman fuckin Reigns. I’m talkin about Luke Harper. I’m of course talking about the shimmering man chest Big E is sporting. I’m talkin about the whole lot of yees. The Usos, Rowan, the selling machine known as Seth Rollins. Yer aw ready troops, and I know I’m no only speaking for myself when I say…we’re ready for ye. Ready for ye tae main event the rest of our fuckin lives, tae yer sons n daughters get auld enough tae take over.
So aye….wrestling show.
So Edinburgh got pumped again. In perhaps the most chaotic way yet. Admittedly I missed the first show ICW ran in Edinburgh, but unless there wis a tank and an incredibly hungry Lion involved somewhere, there’s nae chance it matched the carnage that came wae ICWs first ever Edinburgh Street Fight. Glesga’s been tore enough new arses, it wis time tae show the capital how orchestrated violence can look so convincing sometimes, it leads tae the polis being phoned. I reckon the polis showing up is a sign that yer doing it right more than anything else, so I’m sure everyone involved wurnae bothering their arses when it occurred. Before that utter mayhem got under way, we had a stoater of an undercard tae get through, so I’ll try n walk ye through it eh. I know the Square Go review wis a wee bit sketchy on the details, but I have various personal excuses fur that naecunt will really gie a fuck aboot, so we’ll move past it eh. Water under the bridge.
I got in 5 minutes late, so unfortunately I missed most of the bold Billy Kirkwoods patter, but I didnae miss him introducing his broadcast colleague for the evening and I didnae miss how much of a hilarious cunt he is. It wis yer DCT, retired ref and 2 time Square Go entrant (totalling about 3 seconds of action) and he wis now apparently a PIMP, as he came strollin oot shirtless, wae Leah Owens in tow, and the maist baw huggin tights on ye’ll ever see. Tae cut a ong story short, if ye ever need DCT, just dial 69-69-0-0-0. Also, if ye were in the crowd, you’re carrying DCTs wean noo, and it already has a tash.
Another pilgrimage tae Edinburgh aye? Would love tae tell ye I’m sick of the sight of the fuckin place, but I actually grow to appreciate it more and more with each visit. If ye can look past the cunts bumpin intae ye, and looking at yer withered Glaswegian face and sighing to themselves, its actually a nice city. Aesthetically pleasing, and the roaster-to-ride ratio burd wise is far more favourable than it is in Glesga (Talking about the City Centre there eh, I assume as ye move towards Tynecastle, the landscape becomes more dense wae those of the snaggletoothed persuasion) Anyway aye. Wrestling! Thats what we’re aw here for eh? A wee streetfight, some titles on the line, a couple of fractured tag teams going head to head, and eh….Mikey Whiplash quite possibly reducing oor Yum Yum tae something resembling the baked good he shares a name wae. So without further ado, lets preview.
For those of you who don’t know me personally, its important that you’re made aware of how much I admire Mick Foley. I was going to use the word ‘love’ there, but I’ve come to learn over the years that you should only utter that word when you’ve really thought it through, or if the context you’re using it in is regarding drenching a Bacon Double Cheeseburger in BBQ Sauce sauce and devouring that shit. So for now, I’ll hold off on telling Mick I love him.
Imagine sitting doon tae preview a WWE PPV and ye find yersell with nothing but hope and a tingling in the testicles for it. A unique proposition tae say that least. Not that I anticipate this being any less arse bursting than most of the PPVs from the tail end of last year, but d’ye know whit? It has the Wyatts vs The Shield, and a wee chance that either Daniel Bryan or Antonio Cesaro could stroll oot wae aw the belts, so for those reason I’m gonnae allow that pure, unfiltered, rarefied optimism tae flow aw the way from ma chest pubes, right down tae ma ball fro.