“WE GOT US SOME ANNOUNCEMENTS JACK!”
“It’s Martin…ma name’s Martin”
“Alright brother, we got us a memorial rope trophy royal brother. 30 humans enter a bull pen, and the last man standing turns into Andre The Giant brother, yeah brother Jack”
“Whit you even on aboot?
“I dunno, I blacked out about 10 year ago and everything since has been confusion Jack!”
“Many times dae I huv tae tell ye, ma name’s Martin”
“Yeah brother. Like I told that chick I slayed in that porno movie I was in, if you not Jackin, then you aint my brother Jack! Brother Jack Jack brother, Hulkamaniacs”
“Mate you’re away wae it”
Paul Heyman. I see Paul Heyman. That’s Paul Heyman so it is.
RAW opened with a pipebomb promo, in Chicago, and the guy who delivered the words came oot tae CM Punks music. Surely they widnae dae that tae us? Surely they widnae dae that tae a crowd who had openly spoken of their desire tae hi-jack the show and disrupt it as much as possible until CM Punk appears. Surely fuckin no, thats just too cruel int it? or it wid be in a universe where I gied a fuck about CM Punk. Naw really, I dont. He’s been away for aboot a year now. and yees need tae just get over it. I don’t sit in ma spare room every night perfecting my lifesized clay mould of him ataw, and I most certainly dont huv his promos playin in the background whilst I stare intently at C(lay) M(ould) Punk and imagine he’s cuttin them on me. Naw. I dont care mate. You shouldnt either. WHY DID HE LEAVE ME THOUGH?
Heyman comes out tae a chorus of boos, cause this crowd clearly dont understand that Paul Heyman is their da. Button yer fuckin Punk chants and open yer ears. Heyman settles down in the middle of the ring wae the legs crossed, leaving us in nae doubt that he’s either trying hard tae imitate the Pipebomb promo, or he’s showin aff aw the extra flexibility he has since he started power pilates wae Brock.
He’s telling us a wee story about a Paul Heyman guy who they never really wanted. They didnae want him back then, and they dont want him now. His perseverance, and a magnificent balding man named Paul Heyman were his only allies. He’s Chicago born, Chicago raised, and still currently lives there today and his name is…..
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.
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.
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.
So why do we love wrestling? when it comes down to it, its appeal lies on two levels. The first one is the competitive element. Everyone has their favourites, and they want them tae win at all costs. They break their wee hearts when they don’t. It’s an injustice! CM Punk should be the World Heavyweight European Hardcore Champion, forever and ever. Daniel Bryan should share the rest of the belts wae Cesaro, and Big E can keep the IC strap. PUSH DREW MCINTYRE! Aw that shite. We have our favourites and we support them like they’re members of our own family. Like they still suckle on the teet. In reality? its all make believe. Its no more spontaneous than a last minute script change on a sitcom. There’s plenty of improv of course. During matches, promos and anything CM Punk ever does. But its aw rigged. We’re all being played and we know it.
So where’s the appeal if we all know its a work? for me the second level is the storytelling. For me there is nothing more captivating than watching people who are the very best at what they do, telling us a wee story with nothing more than a set of wrestling moves and a particular way of putting them together at their disposal. Like all good stories, the ending has to be fulfilling though. If it doesn’t bring closure, that’s when unrest starts. When Cena takes someones finisher aff the top of the Empire State Building, and still kicks out at 2, that’s when cunts start throwing shit, and making incredibly embarrassing youtube vidoes of themselves burning an effigy of Randy Orton, drying their tears wae an auld Nexus t-shirt. Wondering where it all went wrang. It’s all Triple Hs fault. This company will always be corrupt as long as it’s the house McMahon built. Jack Tunney did it!
All these wee cliches wee aw churn out to make ourselves feel better for becoming too invested in a story.
Betty White was a guest on RAW this week, and as much as a respect how much life she still has in her at 92, my overriding thought throughout was “whit?”
She comes oot, arm n arm wae Big Show, and its revealed that they’re dating, and Betty is expecting tae give birth tae a foot any day now. Trips n Steph interrupt this vile shit, tae show off just how fuckin shapely Stephs lookin these days, and tae gie the expectant mother a wee cuddle. Big Show shoots them heavy growlers, cause his role in this wee melodrama is that of the protector. Guarding his spawn, and his maiden in the face of danger. Erroneously Triple H n Steph think being nice tae Betty White gies them permission tae say words, and have me listen tae them. Triple H is aw “we said we’d CONSIDER Daniel Bryan to be the face of the company if he could beat Orton, no that he wid be for sure” and a man in the crowd is aw “I feel misled!” Me tae man in the crowd, me tae, and much respect tae ye for conveying yer feelings in a controlled manner.
Orton interrupts them by sliding down tae the ring on a slipstream of the “Arabian Beauty” body mist that gies him that rapey shimmer. Stephanie urges Randall tae get the fuck outta there, and Randy urges her to remain calm. He wisnae gonnae handcuff her husband tae the ropes, and gie her a sly winch this time. It wisnae good. I dont care for his words. Disnae matter if he shouts them, whispers them, or dictates the fuckin things tae Morgan Freeman. They’re shite words. He wants tae be on cereal boxes and billboards. Daniel Bryan chants ring out throughout. Nae…cunt….gies….a….fuck.