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Thanks to all who have posted predictions so far. I've edited the write-up for Vertigo vs Hennigan to reflect the fact that Ivan 'The Body' Markov has been 'volunteered' into being special guest referee for their bout. What difference will that make? Wait and see. If anyone wants to factor that into their predictions, go ahead. Thank you everyone for participating. More new stuff being posted soon!

Wow, that was FAST!!

Welcome to the latest stop on our World Tour Of Russia. Episode 13 comes to you from one of Russia's tropical, sunny, idyllic coastal retreats. This week we're all about Russian palm trees, Russian cocktails served in coconuts, Russian swimsuits, sandy Russian beaches that stretch as far as the eye can see, and clear warm Russian seas. Yes, really. Above: Any of you study Geography at school and really get a kick out of it? If so, this World Tour Of Russia is seriously gonna be your kinda thing. For Episode 13, it was time to turn up the heat. Episode 13 saw the Russian Federation Of Wrestling's fledgling 'World Tour Of Russia' visit the hot, sunny, sandy and very un-Russian seeming Domashlino Beach, situated in Primorsky Krai, near the Gorod Nakhodka region of this massive, mind-boggling nation. This soothing tropical paradise, located on the coastal underbelly of this ridiculously big country, was the extreme opposite of every drab, s***ty Moscovan gulag we'd been dragged to so far on this bizarre adventure. After the aggressively dull pit-stop in Zeya last time, I figured I owed the guys something that'd cheer them up. And there's nothing like sun, cocktails, warm seas and palm trees when it comes to putting smiles on faces. Our venue was to be the Fen-Shuy Resort & Hotel - the kind of place designed for fun, budget-friendly family holidays, not mindlessly chaotic wrestling shows. But our villainous overlord Oleg Matytsin and his ghouls in the Ministry For Sport kept screaming at me about how our shows were meant to be 'family-friendly'. And when it came to venues, there wasn't much that was more family-friendly than this. The hundreds of kids that swarmed about the place like flies couldn't believe their eyes as they shared their water-slides and fountains with wrestling legends like Bryan Daniels, Sting and Edge. It was like a dream come true for the noisy, squeaky little f***ers. The grown-ups sunning themselves in this sandy paradise were just as giddy with excitement. Our roster got a kick out of it too. It was smaller than some of the venues we'd crashed our way through so far. But the place would be packed with kids rather than grown-ups. And, by my reckoning, kids only take up about half the room an adult does. So with that 'unquestionably sound' logic applied, I reckoned we could cram maybe 1,800 or even 2,000 spectators in the hotel's function room without anyone being significantly crushed or trampled. The guys loved it. The kids loved it. The locals wouldn't stop talking about our visit for months. The local press had a field day. The town mayor named a Tiki Hut in our honour. PR-wise we'd hit a home run, with images of our smiling wrestlers surrounded by euphoric, grinning children lighting up the front pages of the whole Russian nation. But none of this was my real motivation for choosing this place. I had business to take care of, without prying eyes getting in the way. I needed everyone to be all happy and distracted, so I could take care of some none-RFW business with nobody asking where I'd gone. And so, as the sun set on our first evening in this sandy escape, I slid away into the sunset, off in to parts unknown, towards what would prove to be one of the most bizarre encounters of my whole Russian (mis)adventure... Anyhow. Enough of all that. Onto the serious business of predictions. Here are the latest 'glorious, war-like encounters' that 'will emblaze the wonderous festival of combat' that would be our next wrestling show. (Those were Steven Seagal's words, by the way, not mine). Here's the spicy s*** we're serving up this time around... ... and on paper at least ... this could be our biggest, most important show in a long time... Sting & Darby Allin vs Viking Raiders - The Penultimate Match Of Our Everlasting Tag Title Tournament The epic, prestigious semi-final of our 'epic', 'prestigious' Tag Team Title Tournament is upon us. Witness with open-mouthed awe as two lads painted up like ghosts take on two lads dressed up as Vikings, in a bout sure to silence any naysayers out there who dare to even suggest that this wrestling thing is fake. 'The Fabulous One' John Hennigan (no doubt with his 'Style Squad' of Benceh Toth and Petr Tihanyi) vs 'The Digital Messiah' Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov (with Edge) - Ivan 'The Body' Markov is the special guest referee for this one. In the latest encounter of what has been a pleasingly amusing feud so far, the glamorous Hennigan and the mother's-basement-scented ex-hacker Klapstov do battle once again. When these two have gone face to face previously, the guy nicknamed 'Vertigo' has come out on top twice, due to various high-tech hijinks. But will this third installment go the same way, or will the flamingo-feather-fashionista turn the tide? Let us all know your prediction! Also thrown into the mix is Ivan 'The Body' Markov, who was 'volunteered' into being the bout's special guest referee after Hennigan refused to let our only official 'Boris' officiate this match. Given Markov's own vendetta with Hennigan's 'spirit guide' Gerald The Dog, this really is one of those matches where anything is possible. 'The Glorious Hero Of Russia' Ilja Dragunov vs 'The American Dragon' Bryan Daniels - For The RFW World Title The big one. A monumental rematch for the ages. A herculean clash pitting the forces of East vs West into a collision-course. But who will win? Will the man with the fluffy, ridiculous beard emerge victorious? Or will the other man with the fluffy, ridiculous beard seize the day? Or will something else happen entirely? This is The Russian Federation Of Wrestling, after all. The whole thing's run by an idiot. A drunken idiot at that. Anything could happen! Episode 13 - Coming Soon! Thank you magnificent online people of this fine forum for your continued involvement. More finely unpredictable nonsense is coming soon. Until then, seeing as how there were a good variety of new faces and old having a go at the predictions last time, I have high hopes for this one. Unleash your predictions below! Sting & Darby Allin vs Viking Raiders John Hennigan vs Vertigo Bryan Daniels vs Ilja Dragunov - For The RFW World Title @St. Templar @Vandal @DinoKea @GreatreDRagon @Taylor2020 @Just here to look @christmas_ape @SonOfSharknado @Ippon @KingKennit @Pteroid @MidKnightDreary @John Lions @DarEatWorld @ElectricX @knkmaster69 @Old School Fan @kanegan @DinoKea @Jason Phoenix @stratusfaction @80085 @Diddums @jokandra @noteddysteinblock

This made me laugh. Brought a real, proper smile to my face. More of this please!

“I was in a match predictions contest. I was wrestling predicting” remembered the big Samoan 80085 out loud, trying to hazily put the pieces together. “Yes, you were. It was certainly a... memorable contest” said Seagal reassuringly. “Does that mean I won?” asked Rikishi groggily 80085. Seagal looked over and saw a traumatised, broken Scurll weeping in the corner a very close predictions contest in which various entrants had emerged with 4 points apiece. "You know what, my Samoan friend 80085, in a way, yes you did." The big, friendly giant 80085 smiled. The show closed once and for all with a celebration dance, and a rare smile from our Kimono-clad Sensei. “Yessssss” came Rikishi’s drooling, semi-coherent 80085's voice, as we faded slowly into black.

I like this a lot so far. Looking forward to the next installment

It's great to see a good number of people stepping up and having a go at the RFW Predictions Game thingy. Thanks to you all for reading and taking part. Here's how all you fantastic folk fared: Will @80085 storm to victory again? Or will we crown a new champion? Let's see... @DinoKea - 4 points @knkmaster69 - 3 points @Valkyria - 3 points @StanMiguel - 4 points @Taylor2020 - 4 points @Old School Fan - 2 points @ElectricX - 3 points @80085 - 4 points Nobody got any bonus points for predicting that Scotty 2 Hotty and Rikishi would be the surprise opponents for those spooky Dark Church Of Satan guys. To be fair, nobody in their right mind would have. Only someone mildly deranged or peculiar or drunk would come up with something as silly as that. So 4 points seems to be the highest score this time. @DinoKea @StanMiguel @Taylor2020@80085 that makes you all winners I guess! Congrats to you! Awesome people who frequent this diary - thanks again to you all. The card for Episode 13 will go up soon, as will the next chapter / intermission thingy, which is quite possibly the (second) weirdest thing I've ever posted here. See you soon, folks!

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE FORUM! EPISODE 12 OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION OF WRESTLING HAS BEEN POSTED! AND HERE I AM, SHAMELESSLY FLAUNTING THE CRAP OUT OF IT! AS WITH EVERYTHING ELSE POSTED IN MY BIZARRE, FUNKY LITTLE DYNASTY, I CAN HONESTLY SAY YOU WON'T SEE ANYTHING LIKE THIS ANYWHERE ELSE! ALSO, FANS OF THIS PARTICULAR WRESTLING MOVE WILL PROBABLY WANT TO CHECK THIS SHOW OUT! SO HEAD OVER AND HAVE A LOOK. CLICK HERE (OR ANYWHERE ON THIS SHAMELESS PLUG OF A POST) TO SEE THIS SEXY NEW CONTENT!

Broadcast on Rossiya 1. Held deep within the damp, hot, sweaty bowels of The Institute For Industrial Solidarity And Hydroelectric Research Building #3, deep in the underbelly of the rusty, odd-smelling, ugly but impressively huge dam in Zeya, in the Amur Oblask region of Russia. 1,742 Lightning Bolt Energy Drink scented locals were in attendance. Above: I'd gotten so tipsy on champagne that I'd accidentally ordered French flags instead of Russian ones. Fortunately our viewers were even more drunk than I was - it was nearly a month after Episode 12 aired before someone sobered up enough to notice. Above: So little happens in Zeya that even the queue for our event was depicted by a local artist for the town newspaper. For Episode 12 we weren't messing around, we got immediately into the action. We went straight to our ‘glorious’ RFW National Title match. In a show of ‘unity under Russia’ our champion Kris ‘The Falcon’ Jokic and his challenger Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov came to the ring together. There were flags everywhere. There were blue, white and red fireworks. A fat old guy in a tuxedo belted out the Russian national anthem at the top of his lungs. It was wonderful, and patriotic, and... lasted about 30 seconds... right until about a millisecond after they got into the ring. That’s when the treacherous Tamerlan Rasuev jumped them from behind and started beating the crap out of them. We’d gotten maybe a minute into our broadcast before the plans all went to s***. Rasuev had a massive chain wrapped around his fist and he was hitting people in the penis with it – it’d worked for him in the past and it was becoming ‘his thing’ now. Unsurprisingly the presence of Rasuev brought out his hated rivals – former UFC supremo Andrei ‘The Pitbull’ Arlovski and former champ Alen Khubulov. They started kicking ass. Rasuev did some more Chain-Related Penis Destroying. Jokic and Markov, both rather annoyed that they’d been blindsided and assaulted, joined in the fun. Everyone got hit with the RFW National title belt at least once. A big Russian flag on a big, heavy-looking brass pole came into play and made a satisfying ‘twang’ noise with every skull it dented. Everyone was having fun – including our Authority Figure Steven Seagal who watched the whole debacle with a grin on his face, until he put a stop to it “in the name of fairness, competition and common decency.” His usual blizzard of shirtless ‘students’ jumped in, brought a halt to the violence, and dragged everyone’s ass back into the ring. Above: 'The Falcon' Kris Jokic, our proud National Champion. This photo was taken before Rasuev hit him in the d*** with a massive chain, obviously. “It’s been ages since our TV show had a National Title bout on it. Khubulov, Rasuev, Arlovski – I’m not letting you three mess it up just because your blood feud got in the way. This is a 5 Way Dance for the wonderful National belt, as of right now! Who knows, maybe you guys will finally settle your score.” Seagal was nodding at his own wisdom. His massive kimono rustled magnificently around his sizeable frame as he did so. “Wait! That’s not fair!” Whined Markov. Our champion Jokic wasn’t thrilled either. Seagal shrugged. It was medically, biologically and scientifically impossible for a human being to give less of a s***. Then suddenly one of Seagal’s many shirtless Russians came forward. You could tell it was Bogdan ‘Hardcore’ Kilmov right away from his massive head bandage. The silly tit still looked like a human lightbulb with that thing on his skull. When was he going to take that thing off?! “I want in on this” he shouted. “Whatever” said Seagal, adding him to the mix without a care. Markov carried on moaning “It’s so unfair! I had to beat, like, 9 other guys at The Event Of The Century to win this title shot!” He whined, stomping his feet in temper like a child. “Yes. How sad. Anyhow, let’s begin!” hollered Seagal, ringing the bell. Angle Rating: 56. Kris ‘The Falcon’ Jokic (C) vs Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov vs Tamerlan Rasuev vs Alen Khubolov vs Andrei Arlovski vs Bogdan ‘Hardcore’ Kilmov – A 2 Way 3 Way 4 Way 5 Way 6 Way Dance – For the RFW National Title It wasn’t long before this match split into two – the feuding Rasuev, Arlovski and Khubulov on one side of the ring beating the crap out of each other, and Jokic, Markov and Kilmov on the other side doing the same. The three foes were so consumed in their vendetta they wouldn’t have noticed if the building were on fire and the room filled with smoke. If Khubulov and Arlovski had teamed up, they could’ve taken care of Rasuev then taken care of business for the championship gold. But by now they were literally kicking each other’s asses for the right to kick Rasuev’s ass. And Rasuev had made it his life’s work to destroy them both. With all three men having legit grappling backgrounds you can imagine the submissions they pulled out of the bag. Limbs were twisted in ways even horror movies haven’t thought of. It was great entertainment. On the other side of the ring were three guys who actually remembered there was a title at stake. Jokic used every high flying stunt in his arsenal, taking every risk imaginable to defend the strap he won against the odds at The Event Of The Century. Markov fought like every muscular, well-greased beefcake you’ve ever seen grace the squared circle. Kilmov was freaking out a little less whenever anyone went near that ridiculous bandage on his head, but still looked like he’d s*** his pants every time a fist went near his face. He did get hit a couple of times, and thankfully his head didn’t explode into an awful death-fountain of blood and brain-goop. The ‘two matches in one’ schtick added a little dynamism to a bout that was otherwise a rambling, uncoordinated clusterf*** of a battle. There was no psychology. Apparently that is bad. But it did give our production team the chance to break out their fancy new split-screen thing they’d been itching to unveil, so at last someone came out of this happy. The match ended when the two fighting groups finally bumped into each other, knocking all but one of the competitors onto their asses in a heap. Jokic, somehow the only one left standing, seized the moment – he hauled his spritely Croatian arse up to the top rope and hurled himself into a Senton Bomb which somehow inexplicably squished all 5 rivals at once. He sprawled himself over the pile of bodies like a human blanket, got the fortuitous 3 count, then hauled ass to the back with his belt before anyone could grab him. Match Rating: 52. After the match, Ivan Markov was pissed. He threw our referee ‘Boris’ to the ground in anger. Despite his huge arms, massive bodybuilder physique and hands that looked strong enough to crush a skull like a Pepsi can, the big guy looked like he was about to burst into tears. “I’ve had enough! This was supposed to be my night! I was the number one contender! This was my fight with Jokic! Yet suddenly every b*****d and his boyfriend is invited into the match like it’s a God-damned frat party!” He looked like he was about to do something crazy. Security ran in to settle him down, but the man they used to call the ‘Lokomotiv’ threw them out of the ring one by one. Within seconds a pile of unconscious bodies lay in a heap. One by one Seagal’s Russians charged at him. One by one he knocked them all out. We’d never seen him in ‘wrecking ball’ mode like this before. He looked unstoppable, single-handedly destroying any fighter who came near him. But then suddenly he stopped, his face lost all colour, he was frozen in fear. He backed off in a panic, tripping over one of the unconscious Russians, falling on his ass. And then he was doomed... Above: The fluffiest, most malevolent force in all of wrestling. ...as the unstoppable killing machine Gerald The Dog pounced on him, put its fangs round his throat, ready to rip out his jugular if he so much as moved a muscle. The arrival of Gerald, Destroyer Of Worlds could only mean one thing – ‘The Fabulous’ John Hennigan was here. Moments later the stench of perfume and flower blossoms confirmed it. Suddenly our bizarre scene now presents us with a pile of unmoving security guards, a menagerie of broken Russian tough guys, a washed-up 80s action movie star in a Japanese dress, a terrified bodybuilder who may or may not have s*** his shorts, the world’s most terrifying poodle crossbreed, and a man dressed in a pink fluffy trenchcoat made entirely of Flamingo feathers. It was a lot for our viewers to take in. Hennigan has his pouty, angry face on as he tells the world he wants revenge on Alexandr ’Vertigo’ Klapstov. He’s pissed at losing their first battle due to Klapstov hacking the venue’s systems, turning off the lights, f***ing with the fireworks, and all the other glorious nonsense that happened that day. The Fabulous One is also steamed about his second loss at The Event Of The Century, due to Edge interfering and Vertigo pummeling him with a laptop in their rematch. “What was that so-called referee doing?! Had there been an official involved with any kind of class, none of these illegal, dangerous shenanigans would’ve been allowed to happen. And then last week in our 3vs3 match that same stripy-shirted simpleton allowed Goldberg to walk out on me, then Daniels to walk out on me, leaving me in terrible danger, allowing The Chin (Edge), The Dweeb (Vertigo) and The Caveman (Markov) to have their fun kicking the crap out of me. I was humiliated thanks to that referee’s incompetence! I demand a rematch with the one they call Vertigo. And I demand another official be in charge!” Seagal pointed out that we only have one referee, saying that if The Fabulous One wanted someone else to officiate the bout, it’d have to be a volunteer from the roster. Of course, nobody volunteered – nobody was that stupid. There was a big, epic silence. Then finally Markov agreed, having gotten away from the fearsome Gerald long enough to raise his hand like the dumb kid at the back of the classroom. His skin looked like he’d lost a tickling contest with Wolverine. Seagal looked puzzled as to why Ivan would volunteer to officiate a match where Gerald would be ringside, given his recent history as that yappy little b*****d’s chew-toy. But our lumpen, jaded Authority Figure was already bored with this nonsense, so just shrugged and went along with it. He made it official: Next week it’ll be Hennigan vs Vertigo with Markov as the Special Guest Referee. ‘Once more to settle the score’ our marketing team called it. “A f***ing travesty” was Hennigan’s rather more colourful name for it. Angle Rating: 59 Vlad Radinov was backstage getting his interview on. Sting and Darby Allin were there. It was all very exciting. To be honest, the ‘Party Tsar’ was only there because I thought his terrifyingly bright array of shirts and jackets would add some colour to a scene full of black and white corpse paint and trenchcoats. “Well, well, well, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a main event, folks! And let me tell you, Darby and I are more than confident about our match against Edge and Alexandr Klapstov. You see, confidence comes from experience, and we’ve got plenty of that” Sting stormed in, because he’s a legend, and legends don’t have time to wait to be asked a question. “You challenged...” began Radinov, but he barely had time to breathe before Mini-Sting got going. “That’s right, Sting. We’ve been through the trenches, we’ve faced some of the toughest competition in this business, and we’ve come out on top. Edge, you’re a legend in your own right, and Klapstov, you might be the ‘new kid on the block,’ but we’re here to welcome you to the big leagues with a taste of what we bring to the table” said Allin enthusiastically. He reminded me of Scrappy Doo. “So you believe your chances...” Radinov shot his question into the mixer with the speed and precision of a Bruce Lee throat-punch, but he needn’t have bothered. “The whole of Russia knows this match is not just about Edge and Klapstov. No, it’s about us sending a message to the entire locker room. We’re not here to play games; we’re here to win, and we’re here to make an impact. And after we’re done with those two, we’ve got another challenge waiting for us.” Sting was swinging his baseball bat as he talked. He must have been serious. The fact that he nearly decapitated the big, hairy, silky, velveteen and fawn interviewer standing next to him didn’t seem to matter. “You are in prime position in the RFW Tag Team Title Tournament, with betting odds having you...” That was nearly a full sentence. Nice try, Vlad. “That’s right, Sting. Next week, we’ve got a date with destiny in the Tag Team Tournament semi-finals against the Viking Raiders, and what better way to prepare than by taking on Edge and Klapstov tonight? So, boys, get ready for a fight you won’t forget, because we’re not just confident; we’re unstoppable” declared Darby, puffing out his chest and shoulders to look less like a kid at a costume party. He clenched his fists to let us all know he was serious too. “Am I invisible or something?” Vlad said to the cameraman, bewildered. He opened his mouth for another question, and that’s about as far as he got. Our interviewer was getting rather sick of this now. “So, whether you’re Edge, Klapstov, or anyone else in our way, remember one thing: the Stinger and Darby are here to stay, and there’s no stopping us now!” Sting smiled triumphantly, then turned to our intrepid interviewer, suddenly remembering there were three people in the promo, not just two. “Vlad! I bet you have some questions for us!” he said with a half-assed smile. “Screw you, you creepy old black and white b*****d!” Shouted Radinov emotionally, before storming out the room, slamming the door behind him. The Stinger looked bewildered. “Don’t worry, these Russians are emotional creatures” offered Allin, patting his mentor on the back. The wily old legend shrugged. The two of them then stared dramatically into the camera until our production team eventually got the hint and cut to a commercial. Angle Rating: 68. The Arrows Of Russia (Dover & Icarus) vs Villain Enterprises (Brody King & Flip Gordon) - Semi Final Of The RFW Tag Team Title Tournament. There are two arrows in the Arrows Of Russia. There are three villains in Villain Enterprises. You can get an idea right away how this one went down. You’d think people would’ve been wise to this by now, but once again everyone was shocked and appalled when this thing ended up as a 3-vs-2 battle. As with every other Villains match, Marty Scurll got involved and a dastardly beatdown ensued. As with every other Villains bout, our referee ‘Boris’ seemed strangely ill-equipped to stop this from happening. Maybe this time he had an excuse – he knew Seagal would kick his ass if the Semi Final of his treasured Tag Team Title Tournament ended in an unsatisfying Disqualification. Things looked bleak for The Arrows. It seemed The Villains would notch up their first victory in forever. But then help came in a very bright, very pink form. It was at the exact moment Scurll was signaling for Brody King to do his All Seeing Eye finisher and end the match - that’s when the beer can smacked into the back of his skull. That’s when Marty toppled and fell like Saddam Hussein’s statue. That’s when Dragan Spazic celebrated the best throw outside of the World Series by opening another 3 cans and somehow downing them all at once. That’s when Brody and Flip rushed to their fallen leader’s aid, unwisely turning their backs on their opponents. That’s when Dover and Icarus snuck in behind, hitting their newly-christened ‘Doom Shot’ finisher. That’s when our smiling, laughing referee slid in for the 3 count. And that’s when The Arrows Of Russia booked their spot in the final. Above: We were on a mission to get people excited about our tag titles, or die trying (probably the latter). This was an enjoyable match – it’s just a shame so many fans didn’t see it. Despite my best efforts to make people give a crap about our Tag Division, the crowd were much more interested in the match later on with Edge, Sting and those other two guys. Whole sections of our fans ran off to the beer tent instead. Maybe we should’ve held the bout there. What happened next brought their attention back to the ring though... Match Rating: 46. The lights went out. Ominous yet wonderfully noisy heavy metal hit the air. All 1,742 fans in attendance fell deathly silent as the rabid melodies of ‘666’ by Rotting Christ pulverised their ear-drums. And then our spooky, Satan-cherishing, randomly indestructible trio of terror made their way eerily towards the ring. Having witnessed the destruction The Dark Church inflicted on previous shows, Steven Seagal was well prepared. A well-rehearsed, well-executed plan was put into motion. Within moments pretty much every member of the roster rushed down the ramp, forming a human wall between Damien Black, his two followers, and everything else. Black, seeing that he had struck fear into Seagal and the whole Russian Federation Of Wrestling, laughed demonically in satisfaction. Seagal looked pissed off – or about as pissed as that saggy, dough-like lump of a face would allow him to look. He got on the mic and addressed the roster: “Until now I was determined to handle this my own way. But I can see now this is a problem that needs a more... physical solution. I know many you want revenge on Black for his random, violent attacks. Any tag team brave enough can step up. Who will have the courage to fight the very face of evil in defence of this fine company? Which team will dare defend Russia, it’s virtues and it’s values?” he uttered with all the raw power and pizazz of a sloppy turd baking in the sun. There was a fearful, awkward silence. No team wanted to be the next lambs to slaughter. Until finally one team raised their hand, ready to sacrifice everything in the name of Truth, Justice And The Russian Way. Unfortunately for Seagal and RFW, it was 2 Cool, who were not exactly the vehicle of retribution Seagal had in mind. He was even more pissed than before. "What are you gonna do, dance them to death?!" he barked angrily - though that massive, gelatinous face of his barely moved. Scotty 2 Hotty and Rikishi nodded with a big smile. That's exactly what they were going to do. "But there's 3 of them and only 2 of you!" Said our Authority Figure, desperately searching for excuses for this random-ass contest not to happen. "I will assist them! I fear no man! Not even the Satanic Damien Black!" It was ‘Dirty’ Dragan Spazic, who’d put down his beer cans long enough to volunteer himself as a beacon of justice. Seagal literally smacked his head in embarrassment as the pink-suited wonder slid into the ring and embarked upon what was simultaneously the worst and the best display of breakdancing I’ve ever seen. "Is there no end to this man's talents?!" Shouted our commentator Alex Koslov enthusiastically, as our new trio performed the most tragic yet hilarious choreographed dance routine since N-Sync split up back in 2002. Seagal groaned, hung his head in shame, than rang the bell. Angle Rating: 59. The Dark Church Of Satan (Damien Black, Ronni Krimson and Koyla Siply) vs 2 Cool (Scotty 2 Hotty and Rikishi) with ‘Dirty’ Dragan Spazic. It's a battle between the unstoppable forces of evil, The Worm, The Stink-Face, and a lad in a bright pink suit. For the honour of Mother Russia! This match was certainly memorable. It was action-packed. It was strangely entertaining. It was also unequivocally, undeniably, unquestionably absolutely truly f***ing terrible. It was the malevolent power of Darkness, Evil and Satan... versus the power of Dance. Guess which one won. Black and Scotty started the match with a Collar & Elbow Tie-Up, but immediately Hotty broke off and started dancing instead. Black went in with a Rear Waistlock, which Scotty twisted his body to reverse, then let go and started dancing. Black latched on a Side Headlock, which Hotty managed to wriggle out of, before – you guessed it – dancing. Scotty tagged in Rikishi, who joined in the dance, the two of them murdering every late-90s Street Dance manoeuvre ever devised. Suddenly Spazic was tagged in, then there were 3 of them at it. It was like a Backstreet Boys revival in there. It wasn’t wrestling. It wasn’t really dancing, to be honest. I don’t know what the hell it was. But it was fun. Then Scotty tagged himself back in, to complete a three minute sequence containing no actual offensive moves whatsoever. Our fans aren’t exactly wrestling aficionados – they loved this crap. I remember thinking to myself how nice it was of Damien Black to stand there watching this nonsense, but when Scotty suddenly started doing The Worm, that’s when he drew the line, casually strolled over, and Curb Stomped his skull into the canvas. What followed next wasn’t just brutal – it was just plain mean. It wasn’t an ass-kicking, it was a pulverisation. My main memory of it is Rikishi - all 6ft 1, 425lbs of him – just standing there screaming as The Dark Church tore his buddy to pieces like Piranhas. Black and his acolytes had Invincible Satan Power on their side; the poor little American didn’t stand a chance. Finally The Arrows Of Russia, who’d been ringside spectators to this massacre, had seen enough – they jumped into the ring and fists started flying. Realising that conventional violence alone wasn't enough against their supernatural enemies, they decided to get creative. I’m not sure how they managed to detach that section of steel guardrail, but it easily weighed as much as they did – which made their feat of throwing it at Black’s head like a javelin all the more impressive. Damien caught the full impact with his face. It’s the kind of impact that’d surely cripple a man. Rikishi and Spazic pushed the guardrail down on top of Black, squashing him beneath it. Dover and Icarus then climbed the top turnbuckles at opposite ends of the ring, performing a dual Moonsault manoeuvre onto the guardrail, crushing Black beneath. The Arrows, Rikishi and Spazic all piled on for the pin – over 1500lbs in weight combined. But the superhuman Black threw them and the guardrail off like flies. He then calmly got up, completely undamaged, not even slightly stunned. His hair wasn’t even messed up or anything. His shirt wasn’t even creased. Seeing The Arrows in peril, the dastardly lads of Villain Enterprises decided this was the moment to get their revenge for their loss earlier. And that’s when one of our wholesome, family-friendly mass brawls broke out – the highlight of which was definitely Spazic slamming Marty Scurll in the corner, which Rikishi followed up with the most thorough Stink Face in wrestling history. Scurll’s whole head seemed to go missing. It was brilliant. It was around this time, however, that Black and his two creepy cohorts turned their ass-kicking up a notch. They systematically went around the ring knocking out everyone, one by one... including Rikishi who was mid-Stink-Face. The giant 425lbs Samoan was completely out cold, stone-cold unconscious... with Scurll trapped underneath with Rikishi's massive, legendary arse still in his face. It was quite the image. The Dark Church Of Satan destroyed everyone in the ring, but left Rikishi and Scurll there. Even Satanists don't like Scurll I guess. Even after the dust settled and the carnage cleared, nobody could shift the motionless Samoan. A team of half a dozen strong, burly stagehands tried and failed. We just ended up having to leave him there all night, with the terrified, traumatised Scurll trapped beneath, his whole head totally enveloped within that massive, stinky posterior. “Scurll’s squashed under there! Someone should help him!” Hollered Roy Jones Jr. “Why?” Asked his co-commentator Rico Bushido quizzically. “The guy’s an absolute tool” added Alex Koslov, incredulously. “Oh yeah” laughed Jones Jr. “An asshole stuck in an asshole. It’s almost poetic” he said with a chuckle. How right he was. So we left it at that. Match Rating: 44. A hearty serving of commercials, propaganda and Putin followed for our lucky viewers at home. When we returned, Vlad Radinov’s bad luck with interviews continued. Up next was him trying to crack the nut that is Bill Goldberg. “It’s like Rocky Balboa said: life ain’t about how hard you can hit – it’s how hard you can get hit and still get back up that counts! I’m seeing internet dorks and dweebs writing me off already. They’re saying a couple of losses spells the end for ol’ Goldberg. The haters are saying I’m finished, that it’s the end of the line. I got news for you clowns – this isn’t online nerd land – this is real life! And only Goldberg gets to say when Goldberg’s done! Only Goldberg tells Goldberg when Goldberg's finished! The critics are not Goldberg, Goldberg is Goldberg!” He was crimson with anger and stuck in some kind of de-linguistic rage spiral. Old Bill looked like he was about to s*** flames. “Goldberg, I hate to ask this, but a lot of fans reacted negatively to you walking out on your tag partner John Hennigan last week. You walked out of your match against Damien Black at The Event Of The Century - the fans hated that. It wasn’t long since you walked out of that bout where you were meant to be Edge’s partner, but left him to get his...” The self-proclaimed ‘Hirsute Mary Poppins of wrestling’ (his words) was suddenly stopped mid-sentence. Goldberg didn’t like what he was hearing. Goldberg got (even more) mad. And that’s when Vlad Radinov got lifted three feet off the floor by his collar, pinned to the wall, and began sobbing in fear. “What fans?! Goldberg did not run away! GOLDBERG! DOES! NOT! RUN!” The veins in his face looked like they were about to explode like landmines. “Mommy!” bleated Vlad like a frightened little lamb. “He never said you ran. He said you walked out. Different thing entirely” came a voice. It was Roy Jones Jr. Our multi-weight, multi-time former boxing champion had left his commentary position to try to talk some sense into the screaming veteran, before he ate Vlad alive and crapped him out all over the floor. “You can scream at the bearded, velveteen fruitcake all you want. It won’t change the facts. You walked out. You turned your back. And that’s gotten the fans – myself included – all worried about you.” Radinov got dropped on his ass. Goldberg was now missile-locked on Jones Jr, getting all up in his face, snarling. But the Ring Magazine P4P veteran wasn’t intimidated. He didn’t back down, standing his ground and meeting the former WCW champion’s ferocious stare with his own. And Goldberg didn’t like that. He stormed off, screaming with anger and kicking over furniture as he went. Jones Jr sighed and shook his head sadly. “Man, I thought my ass was grass!” Sighed Radinov with relief. Jones Jr looked at the sweat patches on Vlad’s shirt and the suspicious wet patch on the front of his pants. “You should always stand up to bullies. Never be scared of anyone – especially those who seek to get their own way by shouting, intimidation, or with threats of violence. This is Russia, and all men are equal in this glorious nation – and that means you too. If you ever want to remind yourself of that, head down to one of my Putin-Approved™ Boxing Gyms – available nationwide. It’s the first step towards being reborn into the kind of man you’ve always had the potential to be; the kind of man Russia needs us ALL to be.” Upon hearing these ‘inspiring’ and definitely not state-mandated words, Radinov got back to his feet, dusted himself off, and shook Jones Jr’s hand. Both then faced the camera, nodding wisely as our scene faded to black. Это социальное объявление предоставлено вам Министерством общественной физической культуры и здоровья: совместная работа на благо более сильной, здоровой и мужественной России. This public service announcement is brought to you by the Ministry For Public Physical Fitness And Health: working together for a stronger, healthier, more masculine Russia. Angle Rating: 62. The next stop on our action-packed journey through the darker nether-regions of nonsense was the very important, very official contract signing. This is where our upcoming World Title bout would be made official. It was a really big deal. Or we wanted it to look like it was at least. We had a table with a couple of expensive-looking pens on it. We had a red carpet laid out in the ring. We had the contract itself, ready to go, just two squiggles away from an epic rematch between ‘Russia’s Hero’ Ilja Dragunov and ‘American Dragon’ Bryan Daniels. Both men were there, stationed either side of the table, both staring each other down intensely, neither taking their eyes off the other for a second, neither backing down. It was like the Cold War all over again, but on a much lower budget. Seagal was in the ring, giving it the Big Hype. Anticipation was climbing. Tension was building. The fans were digging the hell out of this, all 1,742 of them salivating for next week’s big bout. But then there was suddenly a weird, smothered groaning noise. Slowly it got louder, until the moans grew into a stifled scream. Seagal’s big, tanned, leathery face scrunched up with rage - in the dimmed light he looked a bit like a puckered anus. The camera nervously panned over to the corner of the ring where the weird, rather worrying noises were coming from. That’s when half the TVs in the biggest country on Earth were filled with the sight of Rikishi’s big, unconscious Samoan ass engulfing the whole face of Marty Scurll. Every time the trapped, terrified Englishman screamed it sent ripples cascading through Rikishi’s ass-cheeks like waves on a lake. They were still there. Rikishi was still out cold and unmovable after his match-up earlier. Marty Scurll was still trapped underneath, mid-Stink-Face, screaming into the abyss (literally) for help. Above: Ilja Dragunov, with that dead-gerbil-like beard still on his face. I'd told him if he shaved the beard, he lost the belt. And I meant it. Dragunov and Daniels looked at each other with confused, bewildered eyes. Daniels had wrestled all over the globe, but he’d never seen anything as weird as this. Our World Champion shrugged almost apologetically. “Welcome to Russia” he said with an uncomfortable frown. I think it’s safe to say all the drama we’d built had escaped. “Let’s just sign this thing and get the hell out of here, before the image of Rikishi’s big ass with some dude’s head wedged in it is burned into my nightmares forever” suggests Daniels with fear on his face. He signs so fast his hand is a blur. Dragunov does the same, trying not to stare as the sound of a man sobbing uncontrollably into another man’s anal crevice fills the air. The big rematch is official. The battle begins anew next week. But this wasn’t exactly the big build up we’d hoped for. It was entertaining as hell though. And in the end, that’s what we’re here for, I guess. Angle Rating: 86. After a patriotic newsflash filled to the brim with soldier lads in shiny boots marching up and down a hill for no apparent reason, we were back to the action. “Hennigan, my boy Kulakov has had enough Lightning Bolt to run through the side of a mountain. If you so much as touch this ring, he’ll rip out your spine and floss with it.” ‘The Fabulous One’ had tiptoed all the way to the ring, somehow expecting to go un-noticed in his bright purple coat made of ostrich feathers and mink. His ‘Style Squad’ lackeys were head-to-toe in sequins. How those clowns thought they wouldn’t be visible from ringside is beyond me – they were visible from outer space. Everyone in the ring – Seagal, Dragunov, 'The Nightmare' Vladimir Kulakov, Edge, Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov – had stopped what they were doing just to stare at these idiots. (Rikishi and Scurll were in the ring too, but the less said about that, the better.) Our mammoth-chinned Canadian seized the moment and got on the mic: Edge: “It seems I've found myself in quite the circus. John Hennigan, the self-proclaimed 'Prince of Pizzazz' with that effeminate hair that takes more time to style than it does to wrestle a match! You’re more likely to overpower us with your perfume than with your moves!” Klapstov: “Yeah!” Edge: “I mean, look at that hair of yours; it's like you're trying to compete with Rapunzel for the longest locks in the kingdom! Maybe you should trade in your tights for a hairbrush.” Klapstov: “Yeah!” Edge: “And let's not forget your entourage, Benceh Toth and Petr Thijani, always kissing your... posterior. I mean, really, guys, I've seen more convincing loyalty from a puppy dog! You three should start a comedy act, it'd be a hit.” Klapstov: “Yeah!” Edge: “Speaking of hits, my protégé Alexandr Klapstov had a blast handing you not one but two losses, John! He enjoyed it so much that he was practically begging for a third round long before you whined your way into a rematch! He's got a ‘Hennigan Beatdown Tour’ poster hanging in his room already. You see, John, he's just getting started on his path to stardom at your expense.” Klapstov: “Yeah!” Edge: “But let's not get ahead of ourselves. As much fun as it is to taunt you, John, I've got my sights set on a bigger prize.” He turned to face our World Champion, Ilja Dragunov, and gave him the ‘evil eyes’ treatment. “I haven't forgotten about you. Once I beat Sting and Mini-Sting tonight, you’re the next one in my crosshairs. I'm coming for that title, and I promise you, John, you'll be watching from the sidelines as I exact my revenge and become the World Champion.” Klapstov: “Yeah!” Edge: “So keep styling that hair, Johnny Boy, because when I'm done, you won't even recognize yourself, and I'll have that championship around my waist!" Klapstov: “Yeah!” Vertigo was really on fire creatively in this segment. Seagal then gave ‘The Nightmare’ a little tap on the shoulder, and RFW’s pet monster responded with a Suicide Dive that splattered our ‘fabulous’ interlopers like roaches. Toth and Thijani hauled themselves to their feet, then hauled ass to the back, screaming like frightened children. Hennigan was red with both rage and embarrassment. “Vertigo! Edge! You haven’t seen the last of me!” He hollered as he retreated. “Enough of this silly crap. Get Sting and that creepy-looking kid of his down here now. I wanna see some wrestling” commanded Seagal. Angle Rating: 65. Edge & Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov vs Sting & Darby Allin Everyone was really happy with how well Sting and Darby’s match with FTR went a week or so ago at The Event Of The Century. So in a stunning display of un-originality, we copied the exact same formula for this one. Once again Allin was the sacrificial lamb, as Edge and Vertigo did all manner of cunning shenanigans to stop the Coco-looking kid from tagging in his grown-up. This continued until the crowd’s anticipation levels reached fever pitch. Then came the hot tag, Sting turning back the clock like a one man army for about 60 seconds, Edge would then use his cunning to spoil the party, then we’d start all over again. It’s a work as old as tag team wrestling, but we milked it for everything it was worth in this main event. Everyone was impressed with the quality of it, especially considering they could only use 75% of the ring. Our stagehands had used police crime scene tape to seal off the whole quarter of the ring containing the sleeping Samoan and the screaming Scurll. It looked like the most tragic, bizarre, unhygienic crime scene in sports entertainment history. But our on-form competitors didn’t let that stop them. Klapstov in particular surprised a lot of doubters by hanging with the bigger names without looking as out of place as a nun in a whorehouse. As the only Russian in the bout we gave him plenty of time to showcase his stuff, and the spritely, dweeby little firecracker really went for it. Nobody was surprised when ‘Fabulous’ John Hennigan and his ‘Style Squad’ bozos came strutting back down the aisle like it was their own personal catwalk. Sting was the legal man in the ring, somehow managing to look a million bucks despite having his skull jumped and down on by our geeky Russian. The wily old veteran pretended to be appalled when Vertigo got Powerbombed into oblivion. It was almost artful how he managed to get to his feet just moments after the Style Squad had finished their assault, sending Edge flying off the ring apron into the guardrail with the force of a train-wreck. He pretended to be delighted as ‘The Nightmare’ Vladimir Kulakov attacked like a one-man death-squad and decimated the fashionistas like a shark mauling goldfish. But whether you bought that s*** or not, nobody could deny the victory was handed to him on a silver platter. He looked crestfallen at the manner of his victory, but I could tell the crafty old coot was delighted underneath all that face-paint. None of our drunken, Lightning Bolt-addled fans cared though. They’d seen the Legendary Sting shake his money-maker live in their sleepy little town. They’d seen the world-famous Edge do battle. And they’d particularly enjoyed it when the psychotic Russian war-machine Kulakov chased the Style Squad until they cried. That didn’t cheer up Edge and Vertigo, however, as they dusted themselves off at ringside. Match Rating: 62. As the dust settled, the victorious Sting grabbed a mic and pointed at our champion Dragunov, who’d been watching from ringside with great interest. “Ilja, I wish you the best of luck in your title match next week. I like what I’ve seen of you so far. And I know that with the whole of Russia cheering you on, you’ll find a way to win.” The 1,742 fans ate that one up big time. The crafty old veteran had them in the palm of his hand. “Because when you retain that belt... I’m next!” Before Dragunov could even open his mouth to speak, his mentor Seagal was on the mic, doing the talking for him. “You want a shot at the biggest title in world wrestling? Then I shall give you a chance to earn it. Next week you and your Emo-looking sidekick face The Viking Raiders in the Semi Final of our glorious Tag Team Title Tournament. Emerge victorious, and the week after I’ll let you show the world you still have what it takes... against an old rival... it’ll be you and your old friend Goldberg in a #1 Contender’s match!” The crowd were buzzing with excitement. It was like WCW’s heyday all over again, except a lot colder, a lot weirder, and a lot more boozy. "Hang on! That’s not fair! What the hell has Goldberg done to deserve a title shot?!” whined Darby Allin. His voice was deeper than I’d expected. I’d thought he’d sound like Gary Coleman for some reason. Above: I'm still not a fan of that skateboard. “Some fighters have what’s known as ‘Legacy.’ Their actions echo through the generations. Their feats burn their names forever into the pages of the sporting history books. Goldberg has such Legacy, just as much as your mentor Sting. Perhaps one day, when you finish puberty, you’ll understand” said Seagal wisely. And that was the end of that. Dragunov and Sting did a staredown. Because that’s what you do in pro wrestling. It’s the law. I saw this from my position in the control room and thought it’d be a pretty cool visual to end the show on. I pressed the massive red button in front of me that said ‘BOOM’ on it and instantly our venue was lit with a blizzard of pyrotechnics. I pushed the button saying ‘LOUD’ and the speakers shook with the sound of Sting’s theme music Seek & Destroy by Чёрный Обелиск (they’re like Metallica, but much less American, much less upsetting to our overbearing overlords, and a lot more crap. Screw you Oleg for not letting us license the real thing). Then I pulled a switch labelled ‘ENOUGH OF THIS S***’ and the end credits began to roll. Then I cracked open yet another bottle of champagne and sighed with relief that another week of barely scripted nonsense was finally in the bag. Angle Rating: 69. Overall Show Rating: 67. When the credits were done, the cameras returned to an empty venue. The lights were off. The seats were empty – everyone was long gone – except some old dude pushing a broom around the ring, sweeping up the crap left behind after another action-packed episode. It was quiet. Even the muffled screams of Marty Scurll had fallen silent. Was he passed out? Had he fainted? Was he sleeping? Was he dead? Did anybody care? He was still motionless and pinned under Rikishi’s big, family-sized ass, and that was all the information anyone needed. Speaking of which, after hours out cold, the Samoan giant was finally beginning to stir. He groaned. He stretched. He hoiked his massive frame sleepily out of the corner, stumbling a little as he moved. There was something big stuck on his butt, he sensed. He inhaled sharply, then let out The Holy Mother Of All Farts. Whatever it was that was bothering his bottom quickly fell out into a heap on the floor, possibly sobbing. Rikishi was too dizzy to care about that now. His brain was slowly starting to unscramble. His senses started rebooting, one by one. Our Authority Figure Steven Seagal saw there was finally movement and went over to see what was happening. “Everybody’s gone” noted Rikishi with a voice that wasn’t quite conscious. His eyes weren’t quite pointing in the same direction yet. “Yes, Kohai. They left long ago” said Steven with a kindness and a warmth to his voice. “I was in a match. I was wrestling” remembered the big Samoan out loud, trying to hazily put the pieces together. “Yes, you were. It was certainly a... memorable contest” said Seagal reassuringly. “Does that mean I won?” asked Rikishi groggily. Seagal looked over and saw a traumatised, broken Scurll weeping in the corner. "You know what, my Samoan friend, in a way, yes you did." The big, friendly giant smiled. The show closed once and for all with a celebration dance, and a rare smile from our Kimono-clad Sensei. “Yessssss” came Rikishi’s drooling, semi-coherent voice, as we faded slowly into black.

Thanks for the nice comment - glad you enjoyed this diary so much you read through it all. It's great to see people coming on board and enjoying this glorious, ridiculous mayhem. Thank you also to those who have posted predictions so far. Episode 12 results will go up in a day or two, so there's just a little bit of time left for anyone else who wants to have a go. The predictions have all been very wise and logical so far, and definitely what a talented, sober, knowledgeable booker would do.

Looks like a great diary potentially. Was this a real thing? Did this Manchester fed really exist IRL?

Another day, Another show. Another stop on our fledgling 'World Tour Of Russia'. And surely another night of amusing, ridiculous Russian nonsense. You wouldn't expect anything less... Above: Maps are cool. You folks dig maps, right? Despite still having no clue what the hell we are doing, we have somehow survived long enough to bring Episode 12 to the masses. And despite my almost aggressively bad booking, this one has somehow managed to be the highest rated show in the history of The Russian Federation Of Wrestling. If anyone fancies putting their predictions forward as to how we somehow managed such a feat, please go ahead, The card is as follows... Edge & Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov vs Sting & Darby Allin A main event loaded with talent. Even we can't mess this one up, surely? The Arrows Of Russia (Dover & Icarus) vs Villain Enterprises (Brody King & Flip Gordon) - Semi Final Of The RFW Tag Team Title Tournament. Yes, what feels like the longest running tournament in the history of all mankind is somehow still going. Stick with it though. There's fun stuff coming up. Kris ‘The Falcon’ Jokic vs Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov - For The RFW National Title The most talented (and only) Croatian pro wrestler in history defends his recently awarded bauble against our #1 contender Markov, who won this chance at the gold in a 10 man battle royale at our recent(ish) Event Of The Century. This has the potential to be a decent little match... unless something weird happens... The Dark Church Of Satan vs ??? Until now, our Authority Figure Steven Seagal was determined to handle this dark, spooky threat by himself. But this time things are different. Seagal will call for a brave, patriotic tag team to step up and defend the virtues of all of Russia. But which team shall answer the call? And will they stand a chance against the seemingly indestructible Damien Black and his Dark Church? A point is available for predicting the winner, There's another point per mystery opponent correctly guessed. Episode 12 - Coming Soon Thank you all for reading. It's great to see there's still an audience for this, despite going away for a few months. Please do go ahead and post your predictions below. I've made a funky little template for you to copy and paste, if you like. Edge & Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov vs Sting & Darby Allin The Arrows Of Russia (Dover & Icarus) vs Villain Enterprises (Brody King & Flip Gordon) - Semi Final Of The RFW Tag Team Title Tournament. Kris ‘The Falcon’ Jokic vs Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov - For The RFW National Title The Dark Church Of Satan vs ??? @St. Templar @Vandal @DinoKea @GreatreDRagon @Taylor2020 @Just here to look @christmas_ape @SonOfSharknado @Ippon @KingKennit @Pteroid @MidKnightDreary @John Lions @DarEatWorld @ElectricX @knkmaster69 @Old School Fan @kanegan @DinoKea @Jason Phoenix @stratusfaction @80085 @Diddums @jokandra @noteddysteinblock

Real World News: Putin Wins Shock Election! He was a big underdog. Nobody thought he stood a chance. The odds were really stacked against him. But somehow this plucky everyman managed to triumph against insurmountable odds. In claiming this shocking victory, Vladimir Putin has shown us all that anything is possible if we just believe hard enough. I'm kidding, obviously. Everyone knows the whole 'election process' in Russia is just one big parabolic circus of bulls***. News outlets are calling it a 'sham election', which is probably an insult to any real sham elections out there. When you have your main opposition publically killed, you can't really call it a democratic process. But go on Vlad, you ridiculous, lumpy old pudding of a man, enjoy your victory. It's the political equivalent of me taking a hefty, meaty dump, flushing it, then victoriously doing victory laps of my bathroom, triumphantly proclaiming myself 'king of the toilet'. I'm genuinely mystified as to why Putin and his clowns even bother with this nonsense any more. Why bother rigging an election you were bound to easily win anyway? Why bother killing an opponent who has about as much chance of becoming Russian President as I do? The whole thing's just a big, lethal pissing contest with a big, balding ball-sack at the top of it. But, on the positive side, Vlad's 'big victory' means more years in power, which means more years of this diary taking the piss out of him. The card for Episode 12 will be posted soon. The results are written, I just need to format it all and add lots of pretty pictures for you all to stare at. Thanks again to you all for following. More frosty Russian nonsense coming soon.

I just commented on WCW 1995 by @Henderson to say that it's the best diary on the forum. So a nomination for Diary Of The Month goes without saying. The TNA 2024 diary by @kanegan is a good read, I recommend it. A good contender for Diary Of The Month too.

Best diary on the forum. 👍

Above: Other diaries bring you pictures of awe-inspiring wrestling legends, athletes at the height of sporting prowess putting their bodies on the line, and sexy valets in lingerie. I bring you big, ugly, obscure hydro-electric dams from the arse-end of Russia. You'd expect nothing less from a 4x Diary Of The Month winning dynasty such as this. The Ministry Of Propaganda were determined to build up Ilja Dragunov as ‘the face of the victorious modern Russia’ – a sort of wholesome, Christ-like ‘f*** you’ to the nation's many, many enemies – kind of like America's ‘Uncle Sam’ except a lot more real and much more sweaty. For the record, Ilja absolutely was not okay with any of this, but nobody thought to ask him. Besides, this is Russia; there'd be a bullet in his ass if he said ‘no’. As part of his role as this Messiah-like bastion of Russian values, Ilja spent most of his spare time getting dragged from one bulls*** publicity event to another. On this particular day it was the opening of a new hospital. Or a church. Or a shoe repair facility. Or a smelting yard. Or a pencil factory. Or something. I can’t remember. If you’re forced to swallow enough bulls*** it all starts tasting the same. But whatever the occasion was, this one lives fondly in my mind. We were in the town of Zeya, in the Amur Oblast region, a place so d***-smashingly unremarkable, boring and uninteresting that it could only possibly exist in a place like Russia. It’s one of the very few places on Earth with a TripAdvisor page that’s absolutely, completely empty. Back in the year 19-who-gives-a-crap, a bunch of Russia's dullest Communists stumbled across the beautiful River Zeya, and decided to f*** it up by building a big, ugly, grey-ish, brown-ish, turd-coloured hydro-electric dam on it. And that is the only noteworthy thing to happen since the town was founded in 1906. Christ knows why The Ministry had dragged Dragunov (and by extension, us) here – the only possible reason perhaps being this was a pit-stop on the way to somewhere less mind-numbingly, tragically, life-alteringly s***ty. I was annoyed because The Ministry’s insistence on us frequenting this bizarre, empty s***hole had taken us far from where I’d wanted to go in our fledgling ‘World Tour Of Russia’. I’d planned on heading back down what I’d nicknamed ‘Russia’s wang’ – back South towards Vladivostok again. I was thinking of doing our show somewhere like Davydovka or Tavrichanka – important places, that actually matter. Places with something to see. Locations with something more than a s***ty, ugly old dam and the wet stench of rust and failure. I wanted us to go anywhere other than a place like Zeya. I don’t know if I’ve got the point across yet, but Zeya sucks. “It is just a little detour” Oleg Matytsin had said when telling me the news. Turns out his ‘little detour’ was a mere 2,146 Kilometers (1,339 miles) from where the RFW actually wanted to go. That’s a 27 hour drive. That’s roughly half the length of the whole USA. That’s a detour that took us more than the whole length of Japan from where I’d wanted us to be. I wouldn’t have minded if we’d ended up somewhere nice, except Zeya is nothing but a vast, empty s***hole. Above: Just a 'little' detour?! Despite my frustration, we couldn’t exactly say ‘no’. We were still in deep s*** with the Russian Ministry for destroying that Sputnik Lunar Module during Episode 11. Sure, Koyla Siply getting his head bashed in by a priceless piece of space-race history made for great TV, but our attempts to crazy-glue the thing back together after the show had appeased nobody. I had big plans for Episode 12, and being shot to death by our shady overlords would have been inconvenient to say the least. So I decided to be a good boy and play along with the Ministry’s bulls***, cockamamie scheme of bringing wrestling to the masses. Suffice to say morale was low as a result. Zeya was about as much fun as a cavity search. The guys needed cheering up. Fortunately something would happen that’d put the smiles right back on everyone’s faces. Half the roster had showed up to this mind-numbing state-sponsored event. It had nothing to do with publicity or solidarity or any of the usual stuff – they were just bored, so tagged along for the free hotdogs. This was Zeya, after all, the place with nothing to do for over 100 miles in any direction, other than the Museum of the History of Construction of Zeya Hydroelectric Station (Музей Истории Золотодобычи) – which is somehow even less fun than it sounds. So as you can imagine, the arrival of World Champion Ilja Dragunov got the locals talking. There was as close to a ‘party atmosphere’ as you can get in a town where all the buildings were painted the same shade of brown-ish grey as the dam to stop people getting ‘too aspirational.’ The man himself was a little late arriving, so we did the only sensible thing and drank heavily until he turned up. When he finally got here, however, there was something odd about him – something... different... “What the holy f*** have you done?!” I screamed. I was the first to see him, and there was no way I was keeping quiet about it. Seconds later came the laughter. And I’m not talking a little snigger here – I mean the full, uncontrollable belly laughter that takes over your whole body like a shockwave, the kind that makes you howl so hard your lungs start to hurt. Then slowly, one by one, the other RFW guys noticed it too... “What the f*** is that on your chin?!” Our referee ‘Boris’ yelled with both astonishment and terror, covering his eyes as if to shield them from the horror before him. “It must die! Kill it immediately! Kill it with fire!” shrieked Alex Koslov, clutching his big furry Russian hat to his chest in fear. “Dragunov what the hell have you done? What's wrong with your face? You look like a man who gives dogs haircuts for a living.” This was coming from a stupefied John Hennigan. He would know, to be fair. “You look like Colonel Sanders and Popeye had a tragic, mutant baby together” said Shane Douglas through his laughter. “You’re all being ridiculous” sulked Dragunov defensively. He was trying to play it cool, but his blushes of embarrassment gave him away. Soon his whole head would be red with shame. “It’s not fair. Sting gets to have a chin beard, and nobody gives him any crap about it” he whined. That’s because I’m a legend” said the Stinger, appearing magically behind Ilja from out of nowhere, like a ninja, scaring the crap out of our World Champion in the process. “My facial hair looks resplendent. Yours looks like the vagina hair of a 1970s porn star that’s let her standards slide” he added with authority. “Holy Christ! Did a hamster crawl onto your chin and die?!” Exclaimed Edge, arriving on the scene just now and being amazed at the sight that greeted him. “Dragunov, you are meant to be an icon for all of Russia - so why the hell are you trying to look like the Monopoly man?” Now Steven Seagal was here, and he wasn’t impressed either. “Nah, he looks like the Pringles guy” pondered Edge, staring at our champion’s chin with wonderment. “Nobody will follow you if you look like that. You’re meant to look like a leader of men, like an icon for a whole nation to unite behind. But now you look like a small, retarded goat” Seagal added, shaking his head sadly. “It was the Ministry! They made me grow this thing!” Protested Ilja. Nobody bought that crap. He was fumbling his words. Panic was setting in. “Bollocks. I believe they made you wear that ridiculous furry coat. Nobody in their right mind would wear that God-awful thing. But even the clowns that run this country wouldn’t want you, their golden boy, to look like a gerbil was having sex with your face” I responded. Everyone around us nodded sagely in agreement with these wise words. “Did you grow a proper beard, then have a terrible accident with the scissors?” Now Dragan Spazic was here and he was just as horrified as the rest of us. “I’m not taking fashion advice from a fool in a bright pink suit!” Ilja snapped back, bitchily. “Are you aware of the terrible prank that's been pulled on you? While you were asleep someone's cut off all your pubes and superglued them to your face!” Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov was here, dressed in a pair of leather trousers, a ‘Cane Dewey’ vintage ECW t-shirt and his trademark Star Trek Geordi LaForge visor. He looked ridiculous, but he still looked a hell of a lot better than our champion. “You look ridiculous, Klapstov! You look like a 3rd rate Comic-Con reject!” Dragunov replied, venomously. “My wardrobe has given me an army of sexy Sci-Fi babes at my beck and call. That beard will give you nothing but fleas and a rash!” Lord Nerd fired back, smugly. “That beard looks like a nest created by the world’s smallest, saddest little bird” added Spazic. They were ganging up on him a little now. I should probably have put a stop to this, but I was too busy laughing my ass off. “Did you grow that thing as a bet? A dare?” Asked Rico Bushido, while poking the beard with a finger to check whether it was alive. “Did you grow that thing because without it you look like one of those hairless cats that rich people carry about?” Asked Bogdan Kilmov. Ilja snarled at him for that. He clenched his fists. He was ready to go. But no-one was backing down – this was too much fun. “You surely saw how bad you looked before you came here, right? I feel like our World Champion should be able to afford a mirror” added Kilmov with a naughty little giggle. “Bogdan, you still have that massive bandage on your head. It’s been weeks since the... incident. When the hell are you going to take that stupid thing off?” Seagal asked, shaking his head in dismay. “You look like a Sikh” he added. “The doctors said the cut was so deep they found carvings on my skull” said Kilmov calmly, as if this were a perfectly normal thing to be saying. “I look better than Dragunov anyhow. The guy looks like Dick Dastardly from Whacky Races” said Bogdan, getting the conversation nicely back on track. We all burst out laughing. Hysterical, uncontrollable laughter. Even the stony-faced, emotionless Seagal cracked a smile. Dragunov looked like a defeated man. “I was sick of everyone telling me I looked like that evil prince kid from Game Of Thrones!” We burst out laughing again. Ilja was burgundy with anger. Nobody cared. The silly b*****d brought this on himself. Finally, our title holder cracked under the pressure. “Okay, you assholes! Alright! I admit it! This beard was a terrible mistake! The whole internet was saying I looked like Draco Malfoy from those Harry Potter movies! I had to do something about it!” “Now you look like Macaulay Culkin during his drug phase.” I said, matter-of-factly. Was that a step too far? Maybe. I was right though. “I'll get rid of it right away! I’ll shave it off immediately! I was such an idiot! I look so stupid! Can you imagine the humiliation I'd have experienced if I’d gone on TV with this hideous thing on my face? Thank God I can fix this before I become a nationwide laughing stock!” Said Dragunov with urgency, his eyes frantically searching for a razor. “You’re not shaving it. I forbid it. You made the decision to put that awful thing on your face – now you have to live with it.” I said. No way was he getting out of it that easily – this was way too enjoyable. “If you lose the beard, you lose the belt.” Our champ looked like he was about to explode, but I didn’t care. This was the happiest I’d been in ages. His suffering fueled my joy. It sustained me through the stress, the sleepless nights and the endless waves of bulls*** this ridiculous job threw at me. I even printed a little photo of Dragunov and that stupid beard and kept it on my desk – whenever things got me down, I’d just stare at that hairy monstrosity and suddenly I’d be laughing again. Time has passed since this fiasco. The beard is now legendary. It has gained a cult following. Fan forums and Facebook groups still run in it’s honour. Kids wore fake versions of it for Halloween. It became more famous than half our roster. It lives on, to this day, it’s fame not letting it die. You can see it if you want to – bring your family and your friends – it’s right there in The Moscow Museum, in a prestigious place alongside Rasputin and Catherine The Great. As time goes by, everything ends – it is one of life’s few certainties. 2023 ended. Vince McMahon’s vice-like, sweaty grip on WWE ended. Putin’s time as Russia’s President ended. The Russian Federation Of Wrestling ended – but the beard lives on. It will out-last us all. The only things to survive our inevitable nuclear apocalypse will be roaches, germs and that God-damned beard. The universe is strange like that sometimes.

First of all, thank you once again for continuing to trek with me across this ridiculous road trip across the scarcely believable world of Russia. We are very much back, and it's great to have you on board - especially those of you who took the time to predict some of the nonsense that was about to happen in Episode 11... The scores are in... again... This time around, I had a silly rule in Episode 11's predictions game whereby a point was given for each 'question mark'. And then this happened: @DinoKea - 2 points + 1 bonus @kanegan- 1 point + 1 bonus @ElectricX - 2 points + 1 bonus @Old School Fan - 1 point + 1 bonus Everyone above got a bonus point for saying the words "Vladimir" and "Kulakov". And then this guy swoops in through the window like Batman and... @80085 - 1 point + 6 points. That's probably some sort of record or something. One point for each competitor, six guessed correctly. Well played. It seems like @DinoKea and @Just here to look, who seemed to have a bit of a monopoly on winning the predictions before this diary went on it's sudden hiatus, might have a new contender for their crown? Let's see what happens next time. The card for Episode 12 will be posted soon, along with info on what part of this godforsaken country we're touring to next. Thanks once again to you all for your continued support. Stay tuned for more borscht-scented bulls***, coming this way soon...

I was interested in this one throughout the intriguing introduction. And then I read the part about the (presumably AI generated) logo holding a shoe, and now you have my attention completely. I have a sneaky feeling this could be very amusing and entertaining. How much will AI be involved with this diary IRL?

Because you requested it, it shall be done. Unlike the real-life Russia, we're big on feedback here. Expect to see something of this circa Episode 14, which is where I'm up to currently writing-wise. Thank you for reading, as always!

Broadcast on Russiya 1. Held in the Vostochny Cosmodrome, the home of intergalactic space adventures, a hub of scientific discovery, a mecca of technology and interplanetary research... and some pokey little wrestling show, which 1,751 drunken, energy-drink laden Russians witnessed in all its bizarre, chaotic glory. Is there such a thing as too many flags? Is it possible to have too many fireworks? We might have gone a little overboard. There was so much pyro that the opening of Episode 11 was like the beach landing scene at the start of Saving Private Ryan, albeit with more colourful explosions and less dead Americans. In hindsight, setting off $200,000+ of explosives in a rocket factory full of massive containers of ultra-octane, highly flammable fuel, wasn’t the smartest idea. But this was a celebration. A coronation. Our victorious champion was here. It was time to party. Through the smoke, the sparks, the fanfare, the pageantry and the wall-to-wall patriotism walked Ilja Dragunov, who our announcers hyped as “the new face of modern Russia”, “the hopes and dreams of a glorious nation made flesh” and “a patriotic beacon of Russia’s might in its struggle against the corrupting outside forces of the world” – all definitely instinctive remarks by our commentary team, and not at all a bunch of crap the Ministry’s propaganda men forced on us at gunpoint. The fans completely lost their minds. They absolutely went wild. We made sure to point out this was joyous, patriotic fanfare and not at all the result of Lightning Bolt energy drinks with more drugs in them than Ric Flair’s limousine. Ilja looked less enthusiastic though – nervous even. Overawed. Perhaps the weight of a nation’s hopes resting on his shoulders was a big burden to carry. Or maybe his ear-drums had melted from all the pyros. Who knows? In the ring, Dragunov was hyped to high heaven by our Authority Figure Steven Seagal and our ‘Party Tsar’ Vlad Radinov. A huge Russian Tricolour flag was draped over his shoulders. Our glittering, polished-up title belt was placed ceremoniously around his waist. The eyes of the whole of Russia were on Ilja. And the poor b*****d looked like he was about to s*** himself. Angle Rating: 65. Thankfully this s***-storm of nationalistic arse-kissing was interrupted when an equally triumphant Bryan Daniels charged into the ring. The plaid-loving, bearded wrestling machine wanted the title shot he was owed after he somehow stopped the unstoppable Vladimir Kulakov. Seagal congratulated him, launching into a big, zen-filled speech about how Daniels had finally "conquered his demon" and "re-forged his fighting spirit in the furnace of Russian combat." Gone was the jaded Daniels of old, weighed down by the fear of the past injuries and concussions which had once derailed his career. We had a new, improved Daniels now – stronger, more confident, unburdened, more dangerous and definitely even hairier than before. Seagal declared there would be a big, fancy Contract Signing thing next week, with the big World Title bout following the week after. So far, so good. It was all very organised and official and safe – exactly the kind of thing our overlords in the Russian Ministry wanted our shows to be... which meant it was exactly the right moment to throw a wrecking ball like ‘The Nightmare’ Vladimir Kulakov into the mix. Twenty big, tough security guards tried to stop him. Twenty big, tough security guards went flying. A dozen of Seagal’s Russian ‘students’ tried to grab him and stop him interfering. A dozen Russians were very soon unconscious. Within seconds there were motionless bodies everywhere and the crazed, now-un-masked maniac was in the ring having barely broken a sweat. “Kulakov is out for blood! He must be here for revenge! Daniels had better run for his life!” Commentator Rico Bushido shrieked like a girl in a bathtub cornered by a particularly large spider. “Run! Run Daniels! Before the big, scary b*****d eats you or something!” The 1,751 in attendance fans simultaneously fell silent as Kulakov approached Daniels... ... and shook his hand. The place erupted into cheers again. Seagal smiled, pleased at this rather unexpected display of respect, and obviously relieved that nobody got maimed. Well... except for all those wrestlers and security guys laying motionless at ringside... but whatever. Angle Rating: 73. This would’ve been a good time to have a match, or a commercial break, or maybe another wide angle shot of Vladimir Putin riding a bear with a bazooka on his back. But instead this was the moment Damien Black, the recently unveiled Ronni Krimson, and his other mystery acolyte brought their spooky asses to the ring. It all got very Halloween, very fast. Black & Co Ltd kindly informed us all they were declaring war on all of RFW, on Russia itself, the Russian Orthodox Church, the people of Russia, the wider sphere of organised religion across the globe, the Pope, the Pope’s hat, and everything in between. “RFW shall burn”, “our reign of chaos has begun”, all that fun stuff. We were doomed and they were the ones dooming us. You get the idea. This is a wrestling show, so obviously a fight broke out. Dragunov, Kulakov and Daniels seemingly took offence at The Dark Church Of Satan’s war on God/Russia/Humanity and decided to make everything right by punching them in the face. Seagal was greatly pleased by this random outbreak of violence, rang the bell, and turned it into an official bout. Angle Rating: 53. The Dark Church Of Satan (Damien Black, Ronni Krimson, ???) vs 'The American Dragon' Bryan Daniels, Ilja Dragunov and 'The Nightmare' Vladimir Kulakov Despite beginning as a brawl, against all odds an actual wrestling match happened. Which makes sense, as at least 4 of the guys in the ring were really good at wrestling. There were actual wrestling moves, holds, some Strong Style strikes and even some Russian Sambo manoeuvres too, just for the hell of it. Someone flicking through the channels on TV and stumbling upon us for the first time could have actually mistaken us for a real wrestling show. The bits where Black, Bryan and/or Dragunov were in the ring together were pretty damn brilliant. Kulakov looked like he was genuinely trying to murder people. Ronni Krimson sort of, kind of held his own with lots of backflips and stuff. And the cloaked, mysterious, unknown Dark Church lad did... erm... stuff. And things. Or something. Our 3 righteous good-guys did great, were on the attack for most of the match, with all kinds of offense. But after a while it became clear nothing they did seemed to hurt Black or his guys. The Faces soon looked like they’d been in the fight of their lives. The Dark Church were still smiling, menacingly, having hardly broken a sweat. Nothing they did was doing any damage. Seagal saw this, panicked, and gave a signal. Immediately his whole hoard of well-oiled, shirtless Russians pounced into the ring. Having watched 3 of the top guys on our roster struggle to make a dent on the Dark Church, Christ only knows what they thought they’d achieve, but it was fun to watch anyhow as their bodies started flying for the second time tonight. Suffice to say Damien Black and Ronni Krimson were having fun in there. Suffice to say our lamb-to-slaughter Russians were not. We were all so distracted by all the joyous mayhem that nobody noticed Vladimir Kulakov and the as-yet-unidentified cultist having their own little brawl. Out they went through the crowd, beyond the stalls, into the ‘strictly prohibited’ spacey, rockety, national-secrety part of the building we’d been told under the threat of death to go nowhere near. ‘The Nightmare’ didn’t mind that his opponent seemed to be indestructible – he enjoyed the challenge. He had a great time finding new, imaginative and ever-bigger things to smash the guy with. You could almost hear the arseholes of every member of the Ministry clenching in panic all at once, as they worked their way through a smorgasbord of priceless Space Age treasures. The fans loved it almost as much as Kulakov did. It did get out of hand eventually though... “Oh my God! That was Sputnik! That lunar capsule is one of the most important scientific artefacts in the history of space travel! It’s academic and financial worth is beyond measure! It has survived the unspeakable cold of the cosmos! It survived the unbelievable heat of re-entry! It survived landing in the ocean with a crew of brave Cosmonauts safely alive inside! It is one of the most important creations of the 20th Century! It literally changed the world... And... and... and Kulakov just hit that guy right over the head with it!” The fans were delighted. The Russian Ministry For Science were horrified. I like to think Yuri Gagarin, the guy who piloted the thing back in 1957, would’ve got a kick out of this. He seemed like a pretty cheerful, laid-back kinda guy. Above: Priceless, irreplaceable relics from the Space Race being destroyed in the name of sports entertainment - it's what Yuri would've wanted. Other important stuff happened. But once a guy’s been bashed with the Sputnik 1 Lunar Capsule, the other stuff kinda pales into insignificance. Somehow the mystery acolyte was not killed, which was a nice bonus. Kulakov and Seagal did the big reveal of the guy's identity. “Oh my God! That’s Kolya Siply! How long has he been keeping this secret?! If he’s in this cult, anybody could be! This is unbelievable!” yelled commentator Roy Jones Jr. This was literally the first time Siply had even been named on our show, but we sold the hell out of it, and the fans bought it big time. Of course they did. They were drunk. The match would be recorded as a ‘Sports Entertainment Finish’ – which means ‘we have no idea who the hell won’. But who cares? We destroyed irreplaceable pieces of the Soviet Space Programme in the name of wholesome family entertainment. And that gave me a warm, glowing feeling inside. Dragunov, Daniels and Kulakov still wanted to fight, ready to defend Russia’s honour (or whatever) but were held back by Seagal. “This is not your fight! I will deal with Black!” The Dark Church were still having their fun with the many, many shirtless Russians who’d charged at Black and Krimson. One by one, again and again, this seemingly endless cohort of shirtless Russians were destroyed. It was like feeding anchovies to a couple of sharks. It was the right time to cut to the commercials once we had a nice shot of The Dark Church Of Satan stood victoriously atop a pile of unconscious bodies. It was one hell of an image. Match Rating: 55. Above: The good news? The match was a lot of fun and people enjoyed it. The bad news? Sputnik was f***ed. Next, we’re outside tonight’s venue – the internationally renowned Vostochny Cosmodrome. There’s a big, metal door covered in padlocks and chains. Marty Scurll, Brody King and Flip Gordon – aka Villain Enterprises - are locked outside. And they are not happy. “Those worthless, two-timing Ruski b*****ds have done it again! They’ve screwed us over! Disrespected us! Those lousy, Borscht-munching, turnip-farming tarts! I hate this! I hate them! I hate this country!” Scurll is having a full-blown pissy fit. He’s properly angry, stomping his feet and everything. In his fury, he swings a punch at the steel door, hitting it in frustration with all his might. “AAAAAAAAAGH!!!” he screams, clutching his wounded fist. He’s trying really, really, really hard not to cry. “They wouldn’t even let us buy tickets! The venue isn’t even sold out! They let the little girl with pigtails behind us in the queue buy five! We couldn’t even get one!” Flip Gordon is really sad too. His face is all scrunched up, like a bulldog chewing a wasp. “It’s a conspiracy!” Booms the big, bearded Brody King in a huff. “It’s almost as if they don’t want us here!” He adds with a scowl. They stop sulking when a man in a very snazzy pink suit wanders over to them. Immediately they get into defensive wrestling positions, ready to fight. “Relax, you dorks. I’m not here to fight. I’m so over joining your dastardly little gang anyway. Shame, because we could have done so many devious deeds together. Besides, everyone’s celebrating. We just finished a video call with Sergey Belyev. He’s recovering well after that nasty bear attack. Just this very morning they surgically re-attached his left buttock! I’m not here for you clowns – I’m just here to recycle all these empty Lightning Bolt Energy Drink cans and empty champagne bottles. That new guy with the massive head bandage - Bogdan Kilmov - has organised an impromptu video games tournament. There’s a party kinda vibe going on. If you guys weren’t such d***s you might’ve been invited. Now get out of my way, losers! I’ve some important recycling to do!” Spazic walked away laughing, whistling a happy little tune to himself as he went. “This country blows!” Shouted Scurll, his bottom lip trembling with emotion. “Come on, guys” said King with a fake, half-assed smile. “Let’s make our own party!” Flip Gordon’s eyes lit up hopefully. “Will there be cake?” Asks Gordon as the Villains skulk away, taking their air of sadness and disappointment with them. Данное социальное объявление представлено Минприроды России. Потому что переработка – для победителей. This public service announcement is brought to you by the Russian Ministry For The Environment. Because Recycling is for winners. Angle Rating: 50. At our ‘Event Of The Century’ a few days prior, ‘The Falcon’ Kris Jokic shocked the nation by winning the RFW National Title. Yes, he won it while unconscious, due to the other competitors being too busy pummeling each other to realise they’d been counted out, but we gave him his big moment anyway. It wasn’t quite as grand as Dragunov’s big moment, but there were some dollar store fireworks, a few plastic flags from the local market. An old lady presented him with a big pot of Goulash. The choir that’d sung the national anthem for Ilja’s coronation had all packed up their s*** and gone home, but we found something suitable on an old CD player and went with that instead. The little Croatian seemed thrilled to bits. As his surprisingly funky theme music echoed through the space centre's vast expanse, you couldn't help but feel happy for the little fella. Authority Figure Steven Seagal seemed rather bewildered as he polished up the National Title and placed it around Jokic’s waist. A triumphant Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov turned up and demanded a big moment too. Seagal congratulated him on winning his 10 Man Battle Royale, and officially proclaimed him as #1 Contender for Jokic’s shiny new title. He was still covered in bandages from where he’d been mauled by Gerald The Dog (again) but still wore a smile the size of the old USSR nonetheless. Lots of people predicted Andrei Arlovski, Tamerlan Rasuev and former champ Alen Khubolov would get involved, having lost the 4 Way Dance in bizarre fashion last time out. And, of course, that’s what happened. There was yelling. There was screaming. Obscure Russian and Belarusian insults had to be beeped out. A gypsy curse was cast. The honour of many mothers were swearily called into question. There was pushing. There was shoving. And then, to the surprise of absolutely no-one, a brawl broke out. As the two nearly-Olympians and the ex-UFC lad brawled up the ramp and out of sight, Seagal, Jokic and Markov were left in the ring bewildered. They shook hands and their match was made for next week's show. Angle Rating: 55. Dragunov, Daniels, Kulakov are backstage and furious. They find Vlad Radinov, who was in his backstage dressing room carefully brushing his magnificent selection of velveteen jackets. “Tell your buddy Seagal we want Black!” Daniels demands, his face red with anger. The three of them were all disheveled after their encounter earlier. Daniels and Dragunov looked like they’d been rescued from a shark attack. Kulakov just looked unhinged. Radinov, gulping with fear every time Kulakov came close, told them there was no way Seagal would allow them anywhere near The Dark Church – Seagal has a strategy for Black, and it doesn’t involve them. They all have their own paths and matches to prepare for. Pissed off and unsatisfied, our unlikely trio storm off, slamming every door they can find backstage in anger. The moment they’re gone, the ‘Party Tsar’ Radinov runs to the bathroom before he wets his pants in fear. Angle Rating: 66. The Arrows Of Russia (Icarus and Dover) vs For The Revival / FTR (Dax Harwood and Cash Wheeler) Of course it was The Arrows who responded to FTR's Open Challenge at our Event Of The Century. It was never going to be anybody else. I can't remember exactly what happened in this match - it's all a blur in my mind. I know the following for sure: Wrestling took place. It was good wrestling, especially as far as FTR were concerned. This was very much a battle of two hairy-chested, bearded guys in leather jackets, versus two hairy-chested, bearded guys in leather jackets. Our commentary team used the term 'old school' so often I banned it from all future broadcasts. Everyone still keeps saying FTR have 'it' - even though nobody can tell me what 'it' is. When real seasoned pros get involved it makes our guys look small-fry in comparison. The Arrows Of Russia are nowhere near as 'over' as people assume them to be. Dover – a rather large gentleman - kept taunting FTR by slapping his belly and hissing at them. I've no idea what the hell that was all about, but it really did throw those Revival guys off their game. Dover and Icarus would face Villain Enterprises' Flip Gordon and Brody King in the first Semi Final of our Tag Tournament the next week. So naturally those clowns and their leader Marty Scurll were ringside, trying to distract the Arrows. They didn't dare step in the ring though - they knew Seagal and every Russian on the roster would kick their asses all the way to Siberia if they did. Nobody was quite sure how The Villains managed to get in, but our whole security staff getting flattened by Vladimir Kulakov earlier may have had something to do with it. As to why Flip Gordon was eating a birthday cake remains a mystery. 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic still hadn't finished his beef with The Villains, despite what he said earlier, he was still pissed that they’d screwed him out of joining the 'dastardly' gang. He spent the whole match collecting the fan's empty beer cans and empty Lightning Bolt bottles, then throwing them at Scurll & Co. Play-by-play guy Alex Koslov is still really precious about his commentary table. The Villains kept getting suspiciously close to it, as if they were plotting to slam Spazic through it. Koslov grabbed a set of Brass Knuckles he had hidden in his big, furry Russian hat and placed it on the table in front of them, menacingly. They got the message. FTR used their ring smarts to make The Arrows look a million bucks in there, even though the Revival guys were clearly the much better team. The Arrows Of Russia won this one clean. Because I'm a b*****d. And because this is Russia. Icarus and Dover also unveiled their exciting new Tag Finisher move, which is definitely not just the Dudley Death Drop / 3D, but slower. Our marketing team branded this 'The Doom Shot' because that's the best they could come up with. Our marketing team sucks. Match Rating: 55. FTR were a little pissed at losing. Things got all tense. But then Seagal dragged his big Kimono-coated ass into the ring and their frowns turned upside down. They were star-struck, giggling like teenage girls at junior prom. He posed for a few photos with them, handed them a couple of cans of Cranberry Carnage Lightning Bolt Energy Drink each, gave them both a playful smack on the ass, and sent them on their way. Moments later it was our commentary team’s turn to be star-struck as Sting and his little buddy Darby Allin strolled into proceedings. The ghost-painted trenchcoat enthusiast got on the mic and praised The Arrows, applauding their tenacity during tonight’s big win. He was impressed. “Take care of business next week against Villain Enterprises. Me and my man Darby here will take care of the Viking Raiders. Then its you against us in the final. Let’s see what you’re really made of.” Cue the mandatory dramatic stare-down between the two teams. It was a cool moment. But the crafty veteran had another reason for being here. “Speaking of great teams...” he began with a glint in his eye. He then called out Edge and his protégé Klapstov, saying how they reminded him of himself and his own protégé. A challenge was made, and eagerly accepted. The fans got all giddy as a potentially spicy new main event – Edge / Vertigo vs Sting / Allin got made for next week. And then there was another mandatory dramatic stare-down. Because we love a well-worn cliché here in the Russian Federation Of Wrestling. Angle Rating: 64. Seeing as how Edge and Vertigo were already in the ring, we decided to get on with the final match of tonight’s show. Our Authority Figure Steven Seagal was in a surprisingly good mood as we entered into our main event. He summoned 'The Fabulous' John Hennigan and his ‘fashion consultant’ lackeys Peter Tihanyi and Bence Toth. Edge, Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov and their random, tag-along partner for the night Ivan 'The Body' Markov were ringside, ready to pounce. "Edge was telling me he's spent all day alphabetising all the moves he's going to do to you. He's really excited to get some maiming done. He says he wants to snap bits off of you, and hit you with them" said Seagal with a happy little smile. "But before the fun can begin, we must know who will fight beside you tonight? Many fans assume it will be your new 'Style Squad' buddies - will they be joining you in this glorious battle?" Hennigan scoffed "ewwwww no! Those two are nowhere near famous enough. Peter and Bence have a full schedule tonight already, holding my coat and polishing my shoes. No, I have decided to allow Bryan Daniels and Bill Goldberg the tremendous honour of sharing the ring with me. Only the best for Johnny Hennigan!" Peter looked like he'd been kicked in the balls upon hearing the news, while Bence started openly bawling like a baby. There were tears everywhere. Seagal ushered the two famous, highly-paid Americans into the ring, and rang the bell, before we all got drenched. Daniels was not happy about having to unexpectedly pull double duty tonight. He was giving Hennigan the 'evil eye' all evening. Angle Rating: 61. Edge, Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov and Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov vs ‘The Fabulous’ John Hennigan, Bill Goldberg and Bryan Daniels. And so it was that the random-ass, haggard, mish-mash team of Hennigan, Daniels and Goldberg went about their ass-kicking. The first thing I noticed was that despite every brain-cell in my skull screaming 'bulls***' upon hearing Edge say he wasn't concussed, his eyes looked clear as he lit up our main event. I almost wanted his brains to be scrambled, just so I could be right and he would be wrong, but alas it was not to be. Edge and the two Russians fought bravely but were over-matched against three of the biggest names on our roster. That was the case right until Goldberg tried to Jackhammer Vertigo, who casually poked him in the eye then turned it into a Hurricanrana. He tagged in Edge. Old Bill tried the Jackhammer on him too, but Edge leisurely hooked his foot under the top rope to stop himself being lifted, before countering the move into a wicked DDT. The Jackhammer was once one of the most feared moves in wrestling, but it seemed everyone had it figured out now. Markov got the tag. Goldberg tried a Jackhammer. But even the big Russian had an answer for it, wrapping his legs around Goldberg’s midsection to stop him getting lifted. He then calmly kneed the grizzled veteran in the balls and threw him out of the ring. That was too much for the former WWE/ WCW ass-kicker. The red mist of frustration descended, and the once-proud warrior stormed away up the aisle – another disappearing act which drew big boos from the fans. As Goldberg sulked his way out of view, Roy Jones Jr left his commentary position, ran over and put his arm around him, trying to console and motivate the fallen legend. Then it was 3-on-2. Hennigan and Daniels still did a decent job despite being outnumbered, but Edge and the Russians kept one step ahead thanks to a series of quick, clever tags. ‘The Fabulous One’ was getting frustrated by these quick changes, unable to gain any momentum. This soon turned into a full-on tantrum, which ended up with him shoving Daniels to the canvas in a temper. “Screw this” the ‘American Dragon’ could be heard saying as he flipped his fellow Yank the bird, rolled out of the ring, and spent the rest of the evening drinking beers with the fans instead. It was now 3-on-1, and the ‘oh s***’ look on Hennigan’s face was priceless. He panicked, pleading for his ‘Style Squad’ to help him – but they were too busy sulking at ringside to help. Let’s just say the match didn’t last long after that. Edge got to unleash his Edge-o-matic signature. Edge’s protégé Klapstov had fun doing his ‘I.C.E. Simulator’ (Sitout Front Facebuster/Suplex) finisher. The match was clearly over, but Markov wanted his fun too. He tagged himself in and did... what is Ivan’s finisher? Is it the Brainbuster type thing he did? Who knows. But all three men jumped on Hennigan at once moments later, and it was an entertaining formality when referee ‘Boris’ did the 3 count. As Edge, Klapstov and Markov celebrated in the ring, Hennigan was tended to by his ‘Style Squad’ stooges. “Forget the bruises! Fix the hair!” He could be heard shrieking at they disappeared down the aisle, out of view. Match Rating: 60. Overall Show Rating: 61.

For what it's worth, I quite like Darby Allin in real life. I'm just being mean to him in this diary for the heinous crime of not being Sting lol If anyone wants to do the predictions thing, now is the time. Episode 11 coming soon! Thanks for reading everyone!

Even though I'm the one who hired the guy, when I saw the legendary Sting coming through the curtain at The Event Of The Century, I almost pissed with excitement. There he was, painted face, trenchcoat, gloves, baseball bat and all. Some people just have that ‘x factor’ - that ability to make every little thing they do look amazing. Shawn Michaels had it in WWE. Sting had it in WCW. There's online ‘experts’ who argue that nobody in wrestling has had it since. The air was electrified by his very presence. He brought an undeniable energy and magnetism to proceedings just by being there. There was a genuine, tangible sense of awe. I'd tried to sign Sting since day one, but he wasn't into it - he kept talking about his "good conscience" and "Ukraine" and "public backlashes" and stuff. Magically, however, these scruples miraculously disappeared when the numbers offered got high enough. The marketing folk at our broadcaster Rossiya 1 claimed it was "a sense of morality and patriotism" that'd brought Sting to Russia. I think it had more to do with the signed decree he received from Vladimir Putin saying that while he was in Russia he would never ever pay tax again. There was a catch though. The legend I'd wanted to bring in as a singles superstar insisted on having company, and I ended up being forced to push him as half of a Tag Team instead. Much to my despair, he'd only come to Russia if Darby Allin could come with him. And so it was that wrestling's own gothic Bart Simpson tagged along like a little lost puppy. It looked like 'Bring Your Kid To Work Day' here in RFW as they came down the ramp. Like Dr Evil and Mini-Me side by side. It would take a lot to convince me that Allin was the hot ticket everyone ‘in the know’ tipped him to be. Their contrasting finishing moves didn't help ease my doubts either. Sting has the legendary Stinger Splash. Allin has this weird thing where he jumps on people ass-first from a great height. He looks like Sting, if you bought Sting from Wish.com or Temu. But the legendary Stinger insisted. And so it was that the guy who was overshadowed by Sting in AEW would continue to be overshadowed by Sting here in RFW. I did draw the line at one point though - when I saw he'd dragged that stupid God-damned skateboard of his half way across the globe with him, I lost my temper, and snapped it in front of him. "No he can't have a f***ing skateboard” I snapped as Sting stared at me, aghast at what I’d done. “You look like The Crow. You look like a Demon. He looks like that kid from Disney Pixar's Coco just got a skateboard for a Christmas present. He loses all fear, all clout when he pulls that thing out. How do you expect opponents to be intimidated by him when he's riding along on that thing like a little kid on his way home from school? I wanna put him in that ring with monsters. I want him going toe to toe with killers and looking like he belongs in there with them. That thing makes him look like he's sponsored by Fisher f***ing Price! What's that skateboard even for, anyway? Is he going to hit people with it? What does he do if that doesn't work? Tie their shoelaces together? It's stupid. He's not having a f***ing skateboard. End of story." Above: Also, the damned thing makes him look about twelve years old. Sting gasped in horror when he saw Allin’s prized skateboard being snapped in half, saying that for every skateboard I broke, he'd buy Allin two more. I replied saying I'd smash those up too. Sting retorted saying he'd then buy a thousand skateboards, until there were too many for me to smash, and I finally relented. It was my own Kittens Strategy used against me. I could tell the crafty veteran would make a formidable opponent. So I upped the ante. Wrestling legend or not, I wouldn't let the crafty old b*****d beat me. I made calls. I used contacts. I called in favours. I pulled every string imaginable. Within the hour every toy and/or sports store in the whole of Russia had pictures of Darby Allin and Sting (with and without make-up) behind the counter, with instructions not to sell them skateboards, under pain of death. It was magnificent. Russia cannot organise troops on it's front like. It cannot organise food for it's people, or roads to all it's cities, or even a convincing hairline for Vladimir Putin. But a nationwide skateboard embargo? They had it done in a heartbeat. This really can be a magical country at times. Having imperiously mastered The Great Skateboard War Of 2023, I was feeling rather smug in the hours before Episode 11 went on air. I'd invaded the biggest space station in all of Russia and put my ridiculous wrestling show in it, I'd beaten the master of mind-games Sting at his own... erm... mind-games, and I had enough champagne and kittens to protect me from whatever mad, random bulls*** was about to hit me next. Or so I thought, until moments later when the whole show almost got cancelled. "American! How dare you break the crystal-clear rules we set out?! How could you possibly have forgotten them?! Such simple rules, and only 647 of them to comply with! How could you have failed me so badly, American?!" My old pal, the Russian Minister For Sport Oleg Matytsin was destroying my phone speaker with his voice again. His voice was getting gravelly from all the shouting. Or maybe his voice was so loud it was melting the circuits. "Screw you, I'm British" I mumbled. It didn't matter. He wasn't listening. He was too busy roaring at me like the world's ugliest, dustiest T-Rex. "You have got me in trouble, foolish American! One of our wonderful leader Vladimir Putin's own people discovered what you have done! The FSB (KGB) will soon know of this! You must undo this terrible wrong, or the consequences could be deadly for you, American!" I was confused. Maybe it was because I'd just poured two whole bottles of champagne into an old KFC bucket, mixed the contents with eights tabs of Alka-Seltzer, and downed the whole lot with a straw, but Oleg wasn't making any sense. I took a deep breath and calmed myself by sticking a few pencils in my new stress-relieving pencil sharpener: Above: You can actually buy one of these. They really exist. Mine arrives Thursday. Click the image to above to have one of these in your life. After half a packet of pencils were worn down to tiny nubs, my shambolic, feisty overlord finally got to the point. "How dare you try to insert mind-corrupting American rock music into a mainstream, prime-time Russian TV show?! You have licensed 'Seek & Destroy' by Metallica! What is wrong with you, американский?! One of our rules was always no American rock music, under any circumstances! It is a plague! A plague of the ears and the mind!" "You guys really don't like America, do you?" I said, unable to stop myself from teasing the grumpy, leathery old fart-pipe. I expected another screaming fit, and another obliterated stack of pencils, but his answer was surprisingly calm and eloquent. "I would rather spend the rest of my life s***ting live beetles than be infected by so-called American 'culture'." As off-the-cuff remarks go, that was a good one. "Russia has brought many beautiful gifts to the world. The breathtaking dance of Alena Kovaleva and Mikhail Baryshnikov. The art of Natalia Andrushaewa. The immeasurable intellect of Gary Kasparov and Vladimir Putin. What does America bring to the world? Beavis & Butthead. Butt plugs. Inflatable sex dolls. Awful, noisy rock music. Gospel music. Country music. Microwaved TV dinners. Leather trousers." I was totally with him on that last one. But he wasn't done - not by a long shot. "Line dancing. Crocs. Agent Orange. Fake rubber testicles which American truck drivers hang from their rear-view mirrors. Sarah Jessica Parker." I was surprised by that one. "Hang on, what can you possibly have against SJP? She's a feminist icon" I interjected. "No, she is a horse" he corrected. "Cheese sprayed from an aerosol can. Hippies. Fake tits. Hell's Angels. Pro Wrestling. The 'music' of Justin Bieber." "Not a Belieber, huh? Isn't he Canadian?" I interrupted. "Canada is America's hat" he explained. "But you can't hate Bieber, surely?" I reasoned. "He is awful. HE MUST DIE." He said with an air of authority I didn't dare mess with. "If America were anything other than evil, why would famous stars like Steven Seagal and Roy Jones Jr be so keen to relocate to our glorious nation?" Oleg suggested. "Tax evasion?" I answered. "No! It is because the decadent west is a poison! And at the epicentre of it is America and it's corrupting, immoral rock music! The Russian Federation Of Wrestling must have no part in spreading this filth!" "Ok. I'll cancel it and use some different music instead" I said with a shrug. I was drunk - what did I care? "I... what? Really? I thought you would fight me on this, American. You are a stubborn creature. I thought it would take at least an hour of drowning you in a toilet to make you agree. I applaud your sensibility" he said with genuine shock "I only licensed that Metallica song because Sting wanted it as his entrance music. They've been going down hill since that 'Death Magnetic' album anyway." I said, looking through my cupboards for more pencils. "Besides, we only paid $70,000 of the tax-payer's money for the licensing costs. We've spent more than that so far just to keep Steven Seagal's hair black" I added, without a word of a lie. "Money well spent" declared Oleg, happily. And on that, we could finally agree. Episode 11 coming next, and soon...

And so the so-called 'World Tour Of Russia' creaks in to life. Above: Do any of those other diaries you read bring you quasi-3D maps of Russia with weird red dots on them? No? Only the Russian Federation Of Wrestling brings you exhilarating content such as this! So here's some of the weird and wonderful stuff we have in store for Episode 11! Behold! The official card is now posted! Has any other diary in this forum's history ever held a wrestling show in an international space centre? No? Have any of those more traditional dynasties ever had big, shiny, muscular men beating the crap out of each other in the shadow of Sputnik? No? Didn't think so. As previously mentioned, the assumedly awesome Vostochny Cosmodrome is the venue for our latest extravaganza. Let's face it, with the financial might of the whole Russian State behind me, it would be stupid not to bring our travelling freak-show to somewhere as cool as this. With the smoke from The Event Of The Century's many, many pyros still scorching the air, we roll triumphantly on to Episode 11. Which means it's time for me to advertise the wrestling that may or may not happen, and for me to give the exclamation mark key on my new laptop an absolute hammering. Here's what my tired, bewildered, possibly alcohol-influenced little brain rustled up this time... FTR (For The Revival) vs The Arrows Of Russia At The Event Of The Century the hilariously successful tag sensation FTR nearly stole the show against Sting and Darby Allin. Annoyed at having only kicked a medium-sized amount of ass, they wanted more. An open challenge was issued, and our very own Arrows Of Russia answered the call, to the surprise of absolutely nobody. In a potentially entertaining match-up, it will be America's best big hairy lads in leather jackets, against Hungary Russia's best big hairy lads in leather jackets. Let battle commence!!! Edge, Vertigo and Ivan Markov vs John Hennigan, ??? and ??? There were a number of factors behind Edge's dramatic loss to Ilja Dragunov in their big Steel Cage Match - a big one being Johnny Hennigan and his new 'Style Squad' interfering. Edge and his protégé Vertigo wanted revenge. As did Ivan Markov, who was sick of being eaten by Hennigan's 'spirit guide' Gerald The Dog every week. Seagal granted their wish, and this enticing 3vs3 headlines our next show. 'The Fabulous One' can pick anyone he wants to be his partners, but everyone knows it'll be his two new 'style consultants' Bence Toth and Peter Tihanyi. But who will win? You must choose!!!!! ??? vs ??? The more eagle-eyed among you will have noticed we always have 3, sometimes even 4 matches per TV episode. So obviously some unadvertised nonsense will shape itself loosely into a 'match' as well. You may as well have a go at guessing. A fancy, candle-lit dinner with Vladimir Putin is the prize if anyone gets it right... so go for it!!!!!!! Our glorious champion Ilja Dragunov, the recently un-masked killing machine Vladimir Kulakov, and the victorious new #1 Contender Bryan Daniels will do wrestling-related stuff in the ring as well!! RFW National Title scene mainstays Alen Khubulov, Tamerlan Rasuev, Andrei Arlovski, and our newly crowned champ Kris Jokic will also be doing stuff!!!! Villain Enterprises - Marty Scurll, Brody King and Flip Gordon - are here and will of course be made unhappy in new and imaginative ways!!!!!! Sting and Darby Allin will be sailing into proceedings on a tidal wave of trenchcoats, leather trousers, face-paint and baseball bats - and there won't be a single skateboard in sight!!!!!!!! (You'll find out why soon.) The Dark Church Of Satan will no doubt be involved, with Damien Black, Ronni Krimson and that unknown other mystery acolyte guy surely ready to do all sorts of spooky s***!!!!!!!!!! Tremendous amounts of Lightning Bolt energy drink will be consumed!!!!!!!!!!! And other random nonsense too!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Episode 11 - Coming Soon!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! So... why not join in? Post your predictions below! One point per correct match outcome guessed. One point per competitor guessed for that match with all the question marked. One point for any other detail correctly guessed about that match. Thank you all so much for reading. There's lots more fun, unusual stuff coming soon...

I wasn't going to publish this one. It was held up in limbo for months due to writer's block. But bringing back The Russian Federation Of Wrestling has got the creative juices flowing again. So here it is, and here it goes... Forget all this wrestling crap for a moment. Take a look at this happy little fellow instead: Isn't he majestic? Just look at that joyful little face. He looks so cheerful. Not a care in the world for this chirpy, cheeky chap, as he bounces and frolics around his high mountain-top home. Despite my extensive online research, the internet just wouldn't tell me this joyful little fella's name – which makes sense, on reflection – because goats don't have names. So I decided he should be called Marvin. Don't ask why. There isn’t a reason. There was a happy little mountain goat. He was called Marvin. And that’s all there was to it. Whenever I saw that wonderful, effervescent smile I’d feel all warm and bubbly inside. Joy would radiate through me, like I was on the receiving end of some big, invisible hug. I printed pictures of Marvin and put them up everywhere. That way, no matter what weird, depressing s*** the universe threw at me, I could just gaze upon his fluffy features, and all would be well again. And there were definitely plenty of problems I wanted to be distracted from... I was at the mercy of a psychotic, creepy-looking overlord with a maniacal obsession for pointless rules - but so what? One look at Marvin’s smiley face and everything was fine. I'd found myself waking up every morning to the horrible realisation I was just the puppet of a homicidal regime hell-bent on destruction and global domination. But never mind - one glance at Marvin’s carefree smile and it all went away. A rage-filled Steven Seagal was threatening to rip out my pelvis and f*** me to death with it. I'd only said in an online interview that he maybe looked better without the ponytail. Oh well - a wistful look at Marvin on his mountain and none of it mattered. The Russian Animal Control Authority were burning up my phone because our company mascot Gerald bit off his handler’s finger and refused to give it back, no matter how nicely he was asked. All those mean, dog-hating fascists seemed to vanish every time I looked at the photo of Marvin The Mountain Goat - suddenly all such cares evaporated. Parents groups all across Russia were complaining because I'd put a big, scary, hockey-mask wearing bloodthirsty monster on their TV screens and made all their kiddies cry. No big deal - Marvin the goat’s majestic smile made all that hate subside. I'd recently found out I'd been put on a scary-sounding Government Watch List because the FSB (KGB) overheard me telling everyone about Vladimir Putin’s weird-looking nipples. Marvin came to the rescue, and inner peace was restored. I was right though, no matter how many anonymous callers threatened to break my legs - he does have weird tits - see for yourself: Above: See what I mean? Above: Go tell it to the world - Vladimir Putin has weird boobs. Marvin may well have been the happiest soul in the world. A close second would have been Adam Copeland, aka Edge. His beaming smile reminded me a lot of Marvin’s. He too skipped around without a care, his heart illuminated with the euphoric joy that comes when the world is on your side. He too was king of his own little mountain. The difference was that Marvin’s mountain was made of rocks and snow. Edge’s mountain was made from the truck-load of cash I'd thrown at him to lure him to the Russian Federation Of Wrestling. I won’t reveal the ludicrous numbers that were involved in that deal. Suffice to say, however, that he could have bought a whole fleet of private jets without his army of accountants even flinching. According to research published in Forbes Magazine, by the end of his contract, Copeland would have more money than Spain. The two smiling, hairy-chinned wonders were so alike in my mind that I even went around calling Edge ‘Marvin.’ It was my special nickname for him. “Who the holy hell is Marvin?! My name’s Adam, you weirdo” he'd shout. “Don’t be silly, Marvin” I’d shoot back with a goofy smile. The grizzled Canadian b*****d must’ve thought I was crazy. But so long as I kept him richer than a Roman Emperor, he was my best buddy. We even used to hug. But then came The Event Of The Century, the cage match, the second loss to Ilja Dragunov, and a whole change in mood. All of a sudden the seemingly endless sunshine that radiated from the Rated R Superstar’s face was replaced by darkened, thundering clouds of doom. Above: Edge before. Above: Edge after. It was only a matter of time before he dragged that massive chin of his into my office and sent his storm-clouds of woe in my direction. As far as tantrums go, he really made an effort. He really tried his best to make a scene, bless him. Feet were stomped. Words were shouted. Chairs were kicked. Tables were flipped. A pile of magazines was theatrically thrown to the ground. Many cushions were disrupted. The large, state-mandated portrait of Putin was knocked somewhat slightly askew. My decorative wooden fruit bowl was toppled, and yes, apples were indeed bruised. But none of this even slightly fazed me. By now I was the veteran of maybe half a dozen of Goldberg’s epic rages, and had come out on top from all of them. This was a breeze in comparison. I just gritted my teeth, stared at Marvin’s plucky little face, and waited for Hurricane Adam to dissipate. Putting the wrestling stuff aside again, here’s some real-world advice: rage is like a fire, and it needs fuel to keep burning. If someone’s screaming at you, they need you to yell back – that way they can keep up the shouting until they get whatever angry catharsis their irrational, adrenaline-soaked brains crave. But these scenarios are lose/lose situations, where both sides trade dignity for emotional release. Instead of fueling the fires of temper, I chose calm. Without backing down, I got my point across logically, without raising my voice. If someone starts a screaming match and the other joins in, they get to storm out feeling like a winner. If you don’t join in, it’s only a matter of time before logic sets in, they realise they’re screaming like an asshole, and finally quieten the f*** down. Then you can get to the root of the problem and fix things, rather than just being noisy and adding another enemy to your list. And so it was with Edge, a relative newcomer to the art of tantrums. As he slowed down, red in the face, laced with sweat and panting for breath, I could tell he’d never acted like this before. He’d never been driven to such extremes until now. He’d started his exciting Eastern adventure full of hopeful optimism, and within weeks Russia had turned him into an arsehole. There was almost a certain magic to it. But now the anger was burning out, giving other emotions room to come rushing in. And that's when I got to see what was really going on. The sadness that suddenly flooded his face hit me like a mule-kick to the d***. “What’s got you so steamy?” I asked, trying really hard to sound assertive yet sympathetic. “Was it the concussion or a Russian?” I asked, without ever surrendering eye contact. “Hey, that rhymes!” I chirped to myself with quiet satisfaction. His face was slightly less crimson now. The veins in his forehead looked slightly less like they were about to explode and piss blood all over my already-ruined office. “It’s not the concussion I’m mad about” said the former gazillion-time WWE Champion between painful, heaving breaths. I wasn’t buying that bulls*** for a second. I told him so. “That’s bulls***. I’m not buying it for a second” I said. See? I’m a man of my word. “You should be pissed about it. I paid John Hennigan extra to slam that cage door as hard as possible. I told him to make sure it looked good for the TV cameras, and screw the consequences. I know for a fact you didn’t blade – that ‘crimson mask’ was the real deal.” “I knew you’d bring up this ‘concussion’ crap. You’re going to use that as an excuse to take me off air for Episode 11 in a couple of days. That way you can kill my momentum once and for all by stopping my chance at revenge. The concussion is history, unlike that loss to Dragunov. I should have known you'd do anything to kill my push in favour of your pet Russians” he sneered. I studied his body language – the winded old veteran was wishing he had enough energy left to Spear me. Fortunately he’d burned himself out on a magazine table and my smoothie-maker instead. “You’re full of crap, Copeland. Concussions don’t just go away like that. Your brain got well and truly fisted by that door shot. It hit you so hard I’m surprised your whole skull didn’t fall out of your arse. You were goofy for hours. You should be in a hospital talking to a doctor, not in an office trying to drown your boss in a tidal wave of tears.” He didn’t like that. But the guy could shove his precious feelings up his expensive Canadian ass for all I cared – he’d dented my coffee machine. I was upset. And I bet Marvin was too. “I'm ok to wrestle” he insisted, his eyes going all angry again. “Your brain got knocked loose so bad that you spent two hours frantically searching for your shoes... even though they were right there on your feet” I responded. “I’m fine!” Edge snapped. Little bits of spit went airborne, shooting at me like tiny little bullets. “Do you even remember that fancy after-party that Putin’s suits dragged you to? You threw up all over the Finance Minister. He hasn’t stopped crying since” I replied. “I’ve been wrestling since 1992! I know what I’m doing” he said with a huff, flicking back his long hair majestically as he spoke. “You woke up in a hospital bed in rubber underpants. You were so delirious you proposed marriage to your nurse” I fired back. “She was hot!” He said, defensively. “HE was not!” Was the honest answer. That one slowed him down a little. “You got a tattoo of Putin on your arse!” I said with a smile. He went white with panic. “What?! S***! Really?!!” There were all the emotions in his voice now. All of them. “No Adam, that was a joke. Lighten up” I said, trying to be reassuring. That didn’t stop him from frantically trying to take off his pants to take a look. “I know my own body” he said, determined to have the final word. He could tell from my face I’d heard that one before, that I wasn’t buying the s*** he was selling. “I can’t break kayfabe” was his next cunning gambit. I hadn't heard that one before, somehow, in all my extensive 3 months of wrestling experience. I secretly Googled it, thinking it was an obscure Jewish holiday or something. But despite my initial look of confusion, Adam could tell I wasn’t buying that either. So he played the only card he had left in his deck - he threatened to quit if I didn’t let him wrestle on our next TV show. I didn’t like it. I was genuinely concerned for the guy’s safety. But he new immediately that he’d won. His smug, triumphant face told me so. I looked at my picture of Marvin again, but his glorious smile offered no solutions. “So if it’s not a concussion that’s making you act like a whiney old diva, then it must be Russia“ I said, getting us back on track. The bitchy smile vanished and the sad face came back. We could both tell I was right. “Are you homesick?” I asked. He shook his head. “I’ve been away from home 300+ days a year since the era of fax machines, way back when portable CD players were the must-have item. I’d rather be back to that crappy life of living out of a suitcase than being stuck here, in s***ty Moscow. It’s a frozen hell. This really is the worst place ever” he moaned. I mean, it is. It’s s***. I’d rather piss out a kidney stone than ever go there again, so I knew where he was coming from. But I couldn’t let the crafty old fox beat me. “Frozen?! You’re cold?! Get Alex Koslov to lend you one of his big, fluffy Russian hats. Problem solved” I quipped. “I hate how cold it is. I’m not the only one – nearly the whole locker-room are sick of freezing half to death every night. Everyone hates the cold” said the gnarly veteran. “You’re Canadian, you hypocrite!” I shouted with a fake laugh. “You guys do cold like the Russians do vodka” I jested. But we both knew it was bulls***. I sighed. He sighed. I sighed. He sighed. I sighed again. He sighed again. I sighed loudly. He sighed louder. I sighed mightily. He sighed mightiest. There was so much sigh. And then I finally gave in. “Okay. I’ll be real with you. Moscow’s s***. Nobody hates this place more than me. It’d be a culture shock for anyone. The people of Moscow are great, its the assholes in charge that ruin it. This city ruins you. Moscow is not a home – it’s a gulag” I said with a sigh, stealthily winning our epic sigh battle once and for all. “I could tell straight away you hated this city. I saw that ‘oh s***’ look in your eyes the first day Shane Douglas and I showed you around. I tried buying you a Ferrari to cheer you up and distract you, but the manager at Zao Maranello's Ferrari dealership chased me off with a shotgun.” I thought he'd be curious about that statement, but he didn't seem at all surprised - clearly I look like the kind of guy who gets chased out of places by screaming guys with shotguns. “You looked happy in Vladivostok” I pondered. Edge’s face lit up at the thought of it. “Yeah it’s an amazing place. It’s like East meets West. Sunny weather. Real food – not the fermented crap they serve here. Sea breezes. Beautiful architecture. I loved it – we all did, the whole locker-room. But then you dragged us all back here to dance like puppets for your buddy Putin. And now everything sucks again.” “You’ve wrestled all over the globe, headlined all sorts of amazing places. But... have you ever fought beneath a rocket? Have you ever slammed someone in the shadow of a Sputnik? Have you ever gone toe-to-toe in an international space centre? Well, you will in just a couple of days – unless your brains fall out from that concussion you apparently don’t have. Did pervy old Vince ever give you the opportunity to do that? No? Didn’t think so.” I could see his face lighting up as I said this. The gloom was slowly ebbing away. “There’s so much more to Russia than cold, awful, s***ty Moscow. Think about it, the country’s so damn big it covers a third of the globe. It makes America look like a pigmy by comparison. Look at this...” I opened up my laptop (which fortunately was one of the few things Adam hadn’t thrown about in his tantrum), fired up a search engine, then showed him some photos: “This is Russia – a place called Soichi. They held the Olympics here not so long ago, before they banned every Russian athlete in the world for all the millions of drugs they found in them. It’s a beautiful place, you'll see.” “This is Russia – the stunning Chara Sands. Yes, this nation’s so God-damned big it has a desert as well all those inhospitable icy, freezing tundras you see in the movies.” “This is Russia – a place called Lake Baikal. There's nothing like it anywhere else in the world.” “This is Russia – the Blue Geyser Lake up in the Altai Mountains.” I was sounding like some kind of cheesy tour guide now, but I think my point was getting across. “Give me a couple of months. We’ll do a World Tour of Russia. I promise there’ll be no more Moscow unless Putin does one of his ridiculous speeches again and they point guns at us to make us go back. Let me change your mind about this ridiculous, crazy, unique, awe-inspiring country. Like I said, it’s an amazing place – it’s just the drooling, murderous retards in charge that let it down. If not happy after you’ve seen the whole country, I’ll tear up your contract and send you home in a luxury private jet with a suitcase of cash as luggage.” That big, infectious, heart-warming smile was back on Edge’s face again. He took another look at those images, rubbing his eyes as if scarcely believing what they saw. I looked over at the wall where Marvin’s picture was proudly hung. He was smiling too. He approved of the way I’d managed to turn things around, I could tell. Moments later, Adam was vigorously shaking my hand. “You've got a deal” he said with an enthusiastic zeal. And so it was that I radically changed the whole company’s plans and schedule, costing millions in travel costs and accommodation, presenting us with logistical challenges beyond belief... all just to keep some cranky Canadian with a big chin happy. But you know what? It was worth it. We all got something positive from the merry adventure that was to follow. It became a personal mission for me. A crusade. I would spend the following months determined to give Edge the tour of a lifetime, to keep him happy and not flee the country. Our 'World Tour Of Russia’ had officially begun. Pulling this off would be easier said than done, as I had to balance our new tour – which had us trekking across a third of the globe - with keeping our shadowy overlords and their relentless propaganda machine happy. Our World Champion Ilja Dragunov had his own touring commitments – now that he'd been sold to the whole country as a poster child for the ‘New Modern Russia’ and ‘The Living Embodiment Of Russian Moral Virtue’, he was being dragged from one side of the country to the other, from one bulls*** publicity stunt to the next. Wherever he went, The Russian Federation Of Wrestling was expected to follow like a loyal puppy. So much stress. So much pressure. A logistical nightmare. Terrifyingly expensive excursions which had RFW accountants jumping out of windows. All of this being run by a clueless, terrified, drunken Brit with an invisible gun pointing at his head. It was one hell of a situation... but at least we wouldn’t be going back to s***ty Moscow for a while – and that made it all worth it. Signing the wrestling superstar Edge was a double victory for me. As well as the big pat on the back I got from The Ministry for stealing an international megastar from the Capitalist West, it also gave everyone involved with RFW a chance to give those ‘Evil Americans’ the middle finger in another way too. I’d always been wary of the terrifying legal machine that surrounds WWE. Forget Putin’s killers in the FSB (KGB) – the suits at Titan Towers were the scariest people on Earth. Or so I thought, until I prised Adam to the East with the lure of gold and riches beyond imagination. I’d been very careful in our dealings with WWE up to that point. Thanks to the Vince McMahon Scandal and the chaos enveloping WWE at the time, we’d managed to buy the rights to the Ilja Dragunov name for about the cost of a used Honda Civic. But that was seen by many of my shadowy overlords as a fluke. WWE’s legal ghouls couldn’t touch us when it came to Goldberg – that’s his real name – his momma gave it to him. WWE sure as hell didn’t own it. For Daniel Bryan, aka Bryan Danielson, I was more cautious, going with ‘Bryan Daniels’ which was a cheesy, unimaginative amalgamation of the two names. That kept WWE’s legal sharks off our asses – just about. When Oleg Matytsin heard about the name change, however, I was accused of cowardice. They saw the name as us backing down and ‘surrendering to the might of Western Imperialistic Forces’. Under normal circumstances I’d have been shot lots and lots of times for such an affront – were it not for the fact I’d just somehow snagged Daniel f***ing Bryan, one of the biggest stars in all of wrestling. On balance, they let that one slide. But when it came to our herculean-chinned Canadian, both Oleg and I were of the same mind – f*** America, f*** WWE, f*** their blood-sucking lawyers, and f*** Vincent K. McMahon – that creepy, leathery, clammy-looking sex pest could go to hell – especially after he burst back onto the scene sporting that weird pencil moustache that made him look like a sleazier, more sinister Gomez Addams: There was a real joy to giving everyone the middle finger by just straight-up calling him ‘Edge’. WWE absolutely 100% owned the copyright to that name, but they could all kiss our asses. For his part, the man himself wanted to ditch the name, and have this chapter of his career as a new beginning. “Just advertise me as Adam Copeland” he suggested. “No. That’s a stupid name” I said dismissively. “That’s my real name!” he shouted back, all defensive and wounded. “Your name sucks” I replied. He pulled a face like I’d just slapped him. In hindsight, it’s easy to see why the guy ended up having such a massive tantrum at me. It wasn’t long after Edge’s big, fancy televised debut that the first ‘Cease And Desist’ letter came from WWE’s legal team. It’s arrival was a source of great amusement to us all. Because we never bothered to respond, they kept sending these things – a new letter arriving every single hour of every single day. We had a great time thinking up new things to do with them. I gave all my batch to a friend who ran a burger joint near RFW HQ. He wrapped his chili-dogs in them. There were so many that even today you can get your extra-large order of seasoned curly fries served to you in one of McMahon’s legal threat notices. The customers get a kick out of it apparently. It adds a sparkle to their day, even if the ink does turn the food a funny colour. Oleg Matytsin - in a rare display of humanity - bought a pet hamster for his nephews, just so he could line it’s cage with WWE’s legal threats. He took great pleasure in watching that furry little rodent wiping it’s arse and balls all over their paperwork. I’d only met the guy once, but I was delighted to hear that the boss of our broadcaster Rossiya 1 Konstantin Ernst was taking these things home so he could wipe his s***ty arse with them. It made him very happy, I’m told, until WWE upgraded their paper to something a lot thicker and sharper, leaving Konstantin’s backside looking like he’d been penetrated with a chainsaw. This was too much for a proud, powerful man like Ernst. With both his pride and his anus wounded, he decided to put a stop to all this legal nonsense once and for all. American firms had about as much power and influence in 2023’s Russia as Oleg’s hamster. We all knew that if any of WWE’s lawyers turned up in Russia to try and take action against us, they’d all go missing before they’d even left Moscow Airport. On paper, the Russian Federation Of Wrestling was owned by the TV station Rossiya 1, but in reality it was owned by the Russian State. Were McMahon’s cronies going to sue the whole Russian Nation? Were they going to try and get Vladimir Putin himself to pay up? They’d have better odds turning turds into gold than winning those battles. WWE sent us lots of letters, because deep down they knew that was all they could do. Konstantin Ernst decided to succinctly illustrate this point by mailing them one letter back in return. It was written on toilet paper. The hand-written message read: Американским юристам. съешь дерьмо и умрешь. с наилучшими пожеланиями, - вся Россия. To the American lawyers. Eat s*** and die. Best regards, - All of Russia. Just to really make sure they understood the message, he popped a 50 calibre bullet into the envelope, for good measure. Suffice to say they never bothered us ever again.

Way, way back in the far reaches of the sands of time... way back in that ancient, mysterious bygone age that was 2023... a bunch of awesome people I've never met online had a go at predicting the results of a fictional wrestling event that never actually happened in real life. It's a strange bunch of circumstances, but a fun one. Now here we are in 2024 - older? Wiser? Who knows. But for what it's worth, here's how everyone did in their predictions for RFW's 'The Event Of The Century'. How did you all fare? Quite well as it turns out... The scores are in... @DinoKea - 4 points. @MidKnightDreary - 4 points. @Just here to look - 5 points. @ElectricX - 4 points. @HiPlus - 4 points. @GreatreDRagon - 4 points. @80085 - 0 points. Well done and many congratulations to @Just here to look who seems to have (for now) broken @DinoKea's vice-like grip upon the winner's medal of RFW's predictions game. You can all play again very soon, when we get around to the entertaining clusterf*** that is RFW: Episode 11... It's great to be back. Long may the mayhem and nonsense continue. Thank you all for reading - and hello to the new people who have discovered this whirling vortex of randomness - hope you all continue to enjoy the show...