dstephe4

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...

"Just look at those eyes. He can't be human. There's something not right. It's creepy." Shane Douglas gulped nervously. "I deal with a few of the creatures in his circle. But I never saw the guy in the flesh before. I see what you mean. I've been staring at him for five minutes now - he still hasn't blinked yet." I said, wishing I was a lot less sober. "He's smaller than I though he'd be. His face looks a little puffy, his body's a little more frail than I imagined." Said Shane Douglas, awkwardly eyeing the army of FSB (KGB) guards that surrounded the man. "He looks exactly like a guy who started three wars and caused the death of a couple of million people should." I said. It's strange when you see that the one the world has painted as the devil is really just a man. Flesh, blood, and worn down by the weight of the chaos his hubris had caused. All the fat, white, old Russian men in suits were laughing and celebrating the event's success. They were at one side of the room drinking champagne and patting each other on the back. We wrestling folk were at the other end, eating pretzels, being well behaved and trying not to get shot. The air in the room was thick with the smell of caviar, black market cigars, smugness and farts. And old people. It definitely smelled like old people. "We need to remember that guy's haunting, spooky-ass face. If we can make Damien Black look anywhere near as scary, we're on to a winner" said Douglas, drawing a line under the matter. I just couldn't stop staring at the man whose international d***-measuring contest had displaced nearly 6 million people - the most since World War 2 - and ended approaching half a million lives. It was the deadly enormity of the man's actions that made it impossible to look away. That, and the fact his fly was open. Above: The Putin of 2023 seemed to be carved out of mashed potato. Putin's big, patriotic speech made headlines in every nation on Earth. The ghouls in the Kremlin declared it a big political victory. But the kick-ass wrestling show that drew everybody there in the first place didn't get a mention. We were swept under the rug like some dirty, nasty little secret. Everyone knew that without The Russian Federation Of Wrestling, the event would've been about as well-attended as a medium-sized Bah Mitzvah. But they were all too busy kissing their own arses to give a s***. And to make matters worse, that was my champagne they were drinking. I sighed a weary, achingly sober sigh and cast my mind in other directions. As Putin and his sycophants filled the air with their nauseating laughter, my brain found itself wandering far away from here. It wasn't long until I found myself with a head full of rockets instead. Big, shiny rockets. Not the ones that kill people. Not the ones flying around Ukraine, blowing stuff up, turning everything to s***. I mean rockets that take people into space. The awesome kind of rockets. Russia wasn't always s***. Historically, Russia's done some seriously cool stuff. The first country to send spacecraft into the cosmos? Russia. First nation to have people going into outer space? Russia. Who invented space-suits? Russia. First ever photos of the far side of the moon? Russia. First ever lunar rover, first ever space station? Russia. First ever spacecraft to land on Mars? You guessed it... Russia. And that's just the stuff with rockets. Inventions like airliners, AC transformers, radio receivers, television, artificial satellites, ICBMs? Russia. Scientific and medical discoveries, like the periodic law, vitamins and stem cells? Russia. The world's biggest country has been famous in Culture since before America was even a pipe-dream, from ballet to art to architecture to chess to comically big, fluffy hats. And all this is coming from a guy who really, really, really doesn't like Russia. Yes, this can be the craziest, weirdest, loudest place on Earth. Yes, at least 60% of it smells like turnips and farts. And yes, Big Bad Vlad and his creepshow followers seem to be on a mission to f*** up the whole planet. But there's a lot of good stuff amid all the vodka, bombs and borscht. Good stuff, like those big, shiny space rockets, at a place called Vostochny Cosmodrome - a place that I'd moved heaven and earth to have as our next venue. A few weeks ago we did a show on a battleship. Now we were about to do a show under the shadow of a real-life, actual space rocket. Yes, really. Russia had a big-ass, very important, very shiny, very fancy space centre until the Soviet Union died on it's arse in 1991. The country got split up, and the part of Russia with all the rockets in it was suddenly now a funky new nation called Kazakhstan. Despite the fact that half of Russia still doesn't have proper roads, Putin decided it'd be a great idea in 2007 to spend $2.24 billion on a new space centre. The project could've changed the world, but this is Russia, so naturally they went about f***ing it up in every way possible. Failure, construction mishaps, delays, security breaches, corruption scandals, you name it – everything happened except actual rockets going into space. After an eternity of cock-ups, in 2019 it looked like the Vostochny Cosmodrome might finally be getting somewhere close to doing space stuff. They had stuff in the calendar from 2023 to 2030 - actual missions and scientific discovery and stuff. But then in 2022 Putin sent his tanks into Ukraine in the biggest multinational pissing contest since the Bay Of Pigs massacre, and everything went to s***. Russia did actually find time to do some space stuff in 2022, but despite all that work, all those years, and all that money, they ended up hiring their old space platform in Kazakhstan instead. Here's a picture of Russia's 'triumphant' mission - you can just about see it if you look past the camels: So since 2019 a whole clusterf*** of scientists and the nation's brightest minds were just sat around twiddling their thumbs, scratching their arses and playing Candy Crush Saga. All it took to borrow to the whole place was a big bag full of cash and a limo full of hookers. The boffins couldn't wait to hand the keys over to me - finally, at last, they had something (or someone) to do. One thing all those historic achievements have in common, other than the 'Russia' thing? They all happened a long, long time ago. And just like Russia's art, science and status, it's space programme hasn't just fallen down, it's come crashing out of the sky like a f***ing meteorite, hit the ground, exploded into flames, and left a giant, yawning crater of s*** in its wake. That's how the biggest, most impressive space centre in the Eastern Hemisphere suddenly became a wrestling venue. The Cosmodrome had gone from Sputnik to Spandex. From spacecraft to suplexes. Those silly boffins had no idea what they were getting themselves into. Dealing with Vladimir Putin is one thing, dealing with Vladimir Kulakov is something else entirely. I pondered this as I watched the sun drop from the sky like a turd into a toilet. As the night descended and the sky filled with stars, I reminded myself that our first ever big event had been a success. We were 'big time' now, I told myself. The crazed, homicidal suits that run this ridiculous nation might finally get off our backs for a while, I hoped. The old men were still celebrating, still laughing and shaking hands, kissing ass and inflating egos. But Putin and his circle of FSB (KGB) had gone. So I took that as my cue to leave too. I should've been happy. This had been a big day for The Russian Federation Of Wrestling. But I didn't feel happy, I felt strange and cold. "This must be what sobriety feels like" I said to myself as my limo pulled up outside my home. I set about fixing that as soon as possible.

9 Broadcast on Russiya 1. Held in Moscow's famous Luzhniki Stadium, where according to the Russian propaganda machine, 20,326 people turned up to see their 'wise and noble leader' Vladmir Putin make his big speech praising his 'unstoppable fighting heroes' in Ukraine. This glitzy, flag-waving, scrotum-stompingly patriotic event was reported on in every country around the globe. As the Associated Press wrote: 'Putin praised Russian troops: “Shoulder to shoulder, they help and support each other,” he said. “We have not had unity like this for a long time,” he added to cheers from the crowd.' This was Russia in 2023 - things were crazy there and then. Vladimir could have told people the invasion was being spearheaded by a battalion of fire-breathing Unicorns, and they'd have cheered him. Big Bad Vlad and his Big Bad Speech weren't the only bizarre and unbelievable things that occurred that night, however. Before things got all weird and shouty, a fledgling, plucky little state-sponsored sports entertainment company put on a little event to entertain the people. Something miraculous happened... a wrestling show that... whisper it softly... did not suck. One of the benefits of having a whole nation bankrolling your company is that you can open your show with a hilarious amount of fireworks. We're talking a level of pyro that made the ones at the start of Wrestlemania look like a back garden barbecue in comparison. We nearly shot down an aircraft. It was awesome. Once the mushroom cloud of smoke finally cleared we got down to business. By far the biggest show in our company's history so far began with two fat, bearded men - one in a Japanese dress and another in a dangerously loud velvet jacket. Steven Seagal and Vlad Radinov were here to get this party started. "At the start of this year I began the magnificent Russian Federation Of Wrestling to showcase the finest fighting talents this glorious nation has ever produced, displaying their skills against the best foreign adversaries ever assembled. Here in our triumphant nation's capital, before the eyes of all of Europe and across the globe, we shall show the world once and for all the supremacy of Russian combat! In front of our virtuous leader Vladimir Vladimirovic Putin, we shall remind a sceptical world that we Russians are the most cunning, most determined and most unstoppable fighting force that history has ever known! And to begin..." Suddenly Seagal's puke-inducingly patriotic speech is interrupted by a jarring Cockney / Latino voice we've all learned to hate. Marty Scurll is in the ring, polluting the scene with his very presence. "Marty! This is not your time! Do not make a fool of yourself!" The voice of the 'Party Tsar' Vlad Rudinov tries to talk some sense into the angry, top-knot wearing screwball, but sense was lost from this guy long ago. "Shut up you big juicy Russian tart! I've had enough of this stupid bloody country and every piece of garbage citizen in it! I'm sick of this company and all the crap I've had to put up with since I got tricked into joining this sick freak show! I know you've left it up to your stupid, inbred, mutant-looking fans to pick my opponent and stipulation tonight! So let's just get it over with! Whichever of your fairies you've chosen, whatever the match, just bring it on! Get it over with! Let's go!" Spit was flying everywhere. His crazed eyes went in all sorts of different directions as he screamed. He frothed at the mouth. His stooges Flip Gordon and Brody King looked worried about him and kept their distance - the guy was clearly losing it. Seagal smiled a smug, wise, self-satisfied smile, clutching his prayer beads as he raised his hand into the air, signaling for the games to begin. Then the music hit, and every one of the 20,326 fans immediately lost their s***. "It's Goldberg! IT'S GOLDBERG!" shrieked commentator Alex Koslov like a teenage girl at a Taylor Swift concert. Suddenly the noisy Marty Scurll fell very, very quiet... Angle Rating: 75. Marty Scurll (with Brody King and Flip Gordon) vs Bill Goldberg - No Disqualification Match (A Stipulation Chosen By The Fans) The fans were cheering, buzzing with excitement at the prospect of this wrestling hero unleashing hell on the hated, disgraced Scurll. But the crafty Villain Enterprises had other ideas. Within moments the grizzled veteran was getting his ass kicked 3 on 1. No matter how much power he unleashed, no matter which of his dizzying array of four moves he tried, the Villain's numerical supremacy would nullify any momentum he could create. It wasn't just the numbers though - this wasn't the unstoppable Goldberg of yesteryear - this was a fallen icon who looked disengaged, dejected, lacking confidence... and our well-drilled bad guys took full advantage. It was hard to watch the guy who was once the most feared force in wrestling taking such a beating... ...until 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic showed up and handed him a steel chair. Immediately his eyes shot back to life. You could see the exact point he remembered this was a No Disqualification match... and he could do whatever the hell he wanted. He was back on his feet right away. Suddenly he was reborn. Steel hit skull, and Old Bill was alive again. Spazic kept on handing him weapons, Goldberg kept on smashing Villains. It was like the Russian wrestling equivalent of whack-a-mole. Had the Villains swarmed him all at once, they might have been able to disarm him and regain control. But pro wrestling 'logic' prevailed, and they just kept rushing at him one at a time. Forward rushed a Villain. Down came a weapon. Onto their ass they went. By now Spazic was getting the fans involved, going to the crowd, getting them to hand him weapons, then passing them on to Old Bill to use in violent, amusing ways. The amount of random s*** that got weaponised was frankly amazing. You wouldn't think a lady's hairbrush would make a very powerful weapon, but in the hands of Goldberg it was deadlier than a Ronin's Katana. I never really thought of giant foam fingers as being a force to be reckoned with, but all three Villains were decimated with it. Brody King got pelted with a kid's Reebok sneaker with a force that sent the menacing giant flying out of the ring like a missile. Flip Gordon got folded in half by a Zimmerframe. How the little old lady who owned it got home without it remains a mystery, but seeing Goldberg wrapping it around Flip's skull was a beautiful moment. And quite how Goldberg managed to turn a woman's bra into a weapon of such deadly force is beyond me, but suffice to say Marty Scurll was never quite the same again. And don't get me started on the obscene, unspeakable violence that was unleashed when he got his hands on that giant pink teddy bear. That was barbaric. By the time Goldberg's trail of decimation was done we were nearly at the six minute mark, at which point the old legend's lungs began to betray him. He was heaving, gasping for oxygen, but the damage had been done. The fans took a moment to survey the damage, watching the snarling former WCW and WWE champion towering murderously over the broken bodies of his vanquished foes, his face red with fury and exhaustion, his body gleaming with the sweat and toil of battle, his mighty fists trembling around the battered and broken remains of the most destructively effective teddy bear in wrestling history. A single foot was placed upon the fallen Marty Scurll. And as our referee reached his inevitable "three", that was more than enough. Match Rating: 57. As Goldberg ran into the crowd to celebrate, the three Villains were soon on their feet - apparently the beating they received from a teddy bear, a shoe and Christ knows what else wasn't as catastrophic as first thought. Perhaps their sudden awakening was due to a guy in a bright pink suit yelling at them. "That'll teach you fools a lesson! I beat you fair and square weeks ago! I should be Villain Enterprises' newest member! But instead you ambushed me and my buddies! You wasted the opportunity of a lifetime! Imagine what dastardly feats we could've achieved together! Imagine the shenanigans we could've created, the skullduggery we..." and then 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic was knocked onto his ass. Scurll & Co were mad at losing, pissed that Spazic had helped them lose, and were tired of his s***. Unsurprisingly a beatdown began. His ass wasn't kicked for long though - down the aisle came salvation in The Arrows Of Russia. "Here comes the cavalry!" Hollered Roy Jones Jr. "The two teams were due to face each other soon in the next round of our Tag Team Tournament. Maybe we'll get a sneak preview here tonight!" Added announcer Rico Bushido helpfully. Fists flew. Traditional Hungarian... I mean Russian war masks were knocked off in the melee. A 3-on-3 brawl filled the ring. The camera cut to Authority Figure Steven Seagal who looked amused as hell at this impromptu slugfest. He rang the bell. "We have a match! Let battle commence!" shrieked commentator Alex Koslov excitedly. "Why the hell not?! This is The Russian Federation Of Wrestling! Anything can happen!" Angle Rating: 50. Villain Enterprises (Marty Scurll, Brody King, Flip Gordon) vs 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic and The Arrows Of Russia (Dover and Icarus) Our colour commentator Roy Jones Jr seemed to be taking a liking to the pink-suited wonder. "Dragan won the right to join The Villains fair and square. They should've let him join. Unlike these clowns he actually wins some matches” said the former pound-for-pound boxing great as this one began. He wasn’t the only one warming to him either – Spazic was developing something of a cult following. This match was fun. Just big, goofy, larger than life fun. The wrestling was quite, quite bad, but absolutely nobody cared. It was the kind that 'wrestling purists' seem to s*** kittens over. But this is a country where it gets so cold at night the toilet water freezes, and they solve the problem by pouring vodka down the pan, lighting it, and hoping the resulting explosion doesn't blow up the house - we know our demographic, and we cater to them. Some fed's fans want fanfare; ours want fart gags. This was the kind of match where Dragan was laid out on his back, and three Villains went to the top ropes at opposite corners of the ring, then simultaneously Triple Missile Dropkicked the guy in the d***. This was a bout where Dover and Icarus then responded to this by picking up the screaming, writhing Spazic, using their combined strength to throw him head-first at the Villains like a human missile. He flattened them like a bowling ball through skittles. Later, The Arrows Piledrivered Gordon off the top rope, while Spazic held Scurll down, with Flip's head landing right on Marty's crotch. This is a match where Brody attacked Spazic with a Taijiri style Green Mist, blinding him briefly... until he tried licking the toxic-looking green liquid off his face, really enjoyed the flavour, then asked his Villainous opponent to do it again. Despite the many classic moments, the fan's favourite part was when The Arrows catapulted Scurll into the ring ropes, causing him to get tangled. His Villainous comrades rushed to his aid, trying all manner of things to untangle him, but failing every time. Finally they managed to free their faction's fearless leader... by taking off his trousers. Seeing Scurll in his tiny underoos, Spazic, Dover and Icarus went after his ass like a bullseye. A fan threw a chair. The three then took it in turns spanking him with it. Scurll howled. Fans cheered. Because seeing a man being ritually humiliated in front of a national audience of millions is what brings families together. Most referees would put a stop to such shenanigans. Many would disqualify Dragan and The Arrows for using a foreign object. But our official 'Boris' was way too busy laughing his ass off for any of that. He even had a go himself. They spanked Scurll until he tapped out, making this one of the weirdest submission finishes in the history of pro wrestling. A lot of people asked why Brody and Flip didn't do more to stop Marty's arse being mashed. There isn't really an answer, because answers require logic, and none of that was to be had here. Perhaps they were terrified of getting spanked too? Anyhow, good triumphed over evil, the fans all had big smiles on their faces, and Scurll couldn't walk properly for about four days. So forget the bad reviews the 'dirt sheets' threw at this - the match was a huge success, and nobody will ever convince me otherwise. Match Rating: 46. "DID YOU SEE THAT?! DID YOU SEE THAT, VLAD?! BOOM!" Bill Goldberg was a little bit excited. "I JUST SWUNG BACK AND THEN... BOOM! HOME RUN! I WAS LIKE BABE RUTH OUT THERE, VLAD! BANG! SMASH!" The smile on our intrepid interviewer Vlad Radinov's face was huge, as he discretely applied his ear plugs. "I TOOK THAT SLUTTY-LOOKING BRIT'S HEAD CLEAN OFF HIS SHOULDERS! BOOM!" The multi-time former WWE and WCW champion was pounding the wall as he yelled, for emphasis. He was clearly a very, very happy man. "I'll admit it, Vlad, I was getting discouraged for a while. Things weren't going my way. But I can feel it deep inside! I'm back! I'M BACK! The fires are burning again! Goldberg's back on winning form and the whole world better watch out! I got another match tonight, and based on the way I'm feeling right now, they'd better watch out! I'm gonna crush everything in my path!" Radinov managed to find a split-second pause long enough to ask a question. The velveteen-jacked maestro pounced on the opportunity. "I haven't been able to locate your opponent Damien Black for an interview. Nobody knows where he is, or indeed anything about him, or his motives. He's a mystery..." Suddenly Goldberg grabbed the mic and his bombastic onslaught resumed anew. "That spooky-looking Dutch man-bitch had better watch out. I don't care how many of his creepy-looking helpers he has with him, I'LL SMASH THEM ALL! YOU HEAR THAT, BLACK?! YOU'RE NEXT!" He then stormed off, slamming the door excitedly behind him with such force that it flew off its hinges. "I guess he's ready" laughed Radinov, as we cut back to the action. Angle Rating: 68. 10 Man Battle Royale – Winner Is #1 Contender For The RFW National Title Next up was the RFW National Title #1 Contender Battle Royale. We hyped this up as a key event which could have a seismic impact on the whole company. This, we stressed, was definitely not just a cheap way of keeping lots of unheralded Russian(ish) wrestlers busy for the night. Ten men would enter the ring. Only one man would be left standing. This brave individual would have their hand raised in glory... and then would be fed to the champion like meat whenever we got around to it. There was Ivan 'The Body' Markov who did really well, thanks to his bodybuilder physique. He found it hard to get into a rhythm though, constantly looking over his shoulder in case of a sneak attack from his bitter nemesis Gerald The Dog. There were Serge Sullivan and Konstantin LaPatka - our two new signings. This was a good chance to witness them in action for the first time. It turned out The Baby In A Suit's synopsis of them was accurate - they are indeed 'two guys in masks who do backflips'. Ronni Krimson is a fairly talented, if unspectacular high-flyer. Compared to the lukewarm crap floating in the Russian wrestling talent pool, however, he was an ace. He did well here, in his first televised event since Episode 1. The only reason you've not read more about him is because RFW's booker is a moron and hadn't yet thought up a way of using him. Ilya Malkov, Anton Deryabin and Alexei Ugrumov put in technically very sound, very correct, very boring performances. They can wrestle, but are about as interesting as Quadratic Equasions. Peter Tihanyi wrestled too. He looks great, but that's all that's great about him. His jacket sparkled but his performance sure as hell didn't. Bence Toth was in the ring. The less said, the better. Let's just take the positives and be pleased that nobody got hurt. And finally there was 'Hardcore' Bogdan Kilmov, star of our recent hospital adventure. He was in the ring, sporting the biggest head bandage wrestling has ever seen, pelting everyone with massive dropkicks (which seem to be his trademark), and screaming every time anyone went anywhere near his face. Kilmov did really well in this match. Despite his bandaged head wound which threatened to explode at any second, the spiky-haired weapons enthusiast managed to eliminate four other competitors. "The last person to achieve that was a certain spooky-looking, hockey mask wearing monster, back in Episode 1! And things have gone pretty well for that guy ever since" enthused announcer Alex Koslov. "You can say his name, you know. He's not Voldemort" laughed Roy Jones Jr. "I'd rather take on Voldemort than either Kilmov or Kulakov" said commentator Rico Bushido nervously. "They're both... well... a little bit psychotic" he added. "They're not psychotic - they're RUSSIAN" said Alex Koslov. We left it at that. It was 10:45 of polite applause, in which sales at the beer tent skyrocketed. The elderly folk among our audience used this as a chance to catch a good nap. Roy Jones Jr pretended to have technical problems with his mic and sat a lot of this one out in silence - mainly because he only knew who the hell two of the combatants were. I honestly can't remember a thing about the match. It definitely happened though. Wrestling occurred. People did stuff. Nobody cared. Ivan 'The Body' Markov won, presumably because of his size advantage, and gets a go at the National Title. Everyone then moved on with their lives with a grand total of zero s***s given. Match Rating: 32. "Everyone says Ilja Dragunov is a new class of athlete. All over this country, all I hear is that he's some new breed of fighter, that he represents a new dawn of wrestling, that he's the forefront of some new dawn of Russian-led combat supremacy. Everybody says tonight's gonna be his night - that this bright new force will burn right through me like I'm a thing of the past. But that's all a dream - a dream everyone here wishes were real. But tonight's main event's gonna be a wake up call." The 'Rated R Superstar' Edge was backstage getting his promo on. And he clearly wasn't taking any s***. "I made my debut on Canada Day 1992, in an event at Monarch Park Stadium in Toronto - a year before Dragunov was even born. I fought my way into WWE in 1998, earning just $210 a week, but fighting the best, learning from the best... back when Dragunov's parents were teaching him how to wipe his own ass. I was a multi-time Tag Team champion in the biggest wrestling company the world's ever seen... before Ilja was even in high school. I'd fought on every continent on the globe by the time he'd even got pubes. In my glorious career I have already beaten every superstar he ever grew up wanting to be. I've seen more, and done more, than this so-called 'Hero Of Russia' could in a dozen careers. Anyone who thinks I'm not adding the RFW World Title to my collection needs a drug test. Above: Edge. 1992. He really wasn't kidding when he said he'd been around a lot. It took the help of half of Russia for that so-called 'champion' to 'beat me' last time. Everyone in wrestling knows I got screwed. But in tonight's main event, this so-called super athlete is trapped in a cage... with me. Just one on one, man versus man. There'll be nobody to help him. He'll be all alone. And when that cage door slams shut, he'll suddenly realise the scale of the challenge facing him... and that the only outcome can be him leaving as a former World Champion." Next it was the wrestler we'd nicknamed Lord Nerd's time to shine. "And this is a message for MY opponent tonight, John Hennigan. I am a member of this glorious nation's state-sanctioned cyber security taskforce Unit 71330, known in the West as Center 16. My intelligence has aided online projects that have toppled world leaders, that have overthrown small countries, that have brought whole economies to their knees. Our project 'Dragonfly' broke the defenses of over 50 countries, aiding Mother Russia's intelligence services for over a decade before being discovered." Edge's geeky-looking protégé stroked his chin smugly as he bragged, a devious smile lighting up his face. "These hands have crippled the networks of half the globe, just as they so easily nullified you in our last encounter. Once again I will crack the code of your weaknesses, Hennigan. Just like last time I will bypass all your defenses, striking in ways you could not possibly foresee. Just like our virtuous nation's online enemies, I will break down the walls that protect you, one by one, until you are defenseless. And then, you dim, dull-witted American, you shall be eradicated. You are analog. You are out-dated. You are the past. We are the future. With my intellect and Edge's experience, you stand no chance. We are unstoppable. We will be victorious, and you will be erased." Angle Rating: 62. With our big Four Way Dance for the RFW National Title coming up next, our fans were treated to an onslaught of pre-recorded interviews with each competitor. Our intrepid interviewer 'Party Tsar' Vlad Radinov was on hand to capture their groundbreaking revelations. Our champion Alen Khubulov was delighted to be finally defending his 'national treasure' of a belt once more, after an infinity on the sidelines. He'll make all of Russia proud, he says, and will get revenge once and for all on Tamerlan Rasuev - the guy who took him out of action. He proclaims the doctor's note that returned him to the ring is genuine, and not at all some bulls*** thing he bought online. The whole country instantly smells bulls***. The thing was written in crayon. Above: Alen Khubulov winning the Russian National Wrestling Championship back in the day. Former UFC Heavyweight Champion Andrei Arlovski wants to win this title to secure his legacy in all combat sport - not just wrestling. But that is secondary to the unbridled joy he feels about getting to maim Rasuev, the guy who Pepper Sprayed him all the way to the hospital. He's as excited as a hyperactive kid on Christmas morning at the prospect of jumping up and down on Rasuev's face, until all that remains is a thick, lumpy paste. He wants to hear bones snap. He wants to rip chunks off the guy and throw them into the crowd. He says he's all about the title, but that's obviously bulls*** - this guy's here to cause damage. Tamerlan Rasuev, once again, is upset. His woe is mountainous. His grief is insurmountable. His whining is endless. RFW betrayed him. The fans betrayed him. Steven Seagal betrayed him. Then fired him. Then betrayed him some more. I betrayed him. You betrayed him. The guy around the corner with the hotdog cart betrayed him. You get the picture. The only thing that can restore his pride, his reputation and his place in RFW (and hopefully stop him crying like a b****) is winning this title. Above: Tamerlan Rasuev, back before the days of woe. And then there was 30 seconds at the end for Kris 'The Falcon' Jokic, who is absolutely, definitely not just there to make up the numbers. He totally deserves to be there, he tells us. He will make history as the first ever non-Russian to win the National Title, he proclaims... which sounds impressive until you remember he'd be only the second guy to ever wear the belt. All our competitors are ready. All are psyched. All are loaded up to their tits on the pharmaceutical maelstrom that is Lightning Bolt energy drink. All that remains is for the bell to ring and for the action to begin... Angle Rating: 62. Alen Khubulov vs Tamerlan Rasuev vs Andrei Arlovski vs Kris Jokic – For the RFW National Title There were fireworks. There were flags. There was the sight of thousands of fans standing to attention, applauding passionately. There was the "Patrioticheskaya Pesnya" Russian National Anthem blasting through the air. There was Alen Khubulov with the Russian Tricolour flag draped ceremoniously over his shoulders. There was the RFW National Title shining in pride of place around his waist. Khubulov was like the hopes of a nation personified as he made his way down the entrance ramp. He looked great... right up to the moment Tamerlan Rasuev leaped from the shadows and started kicking the s*** out of him. Most people would be distracted if 20,326 people were screaming at them, swearing at them, and throwing trash at them. But Rasuev didn't seem to care one bit - he was just happily kicking Khubulov's skull against the entrance ramp. He seemed to enjoy the satisfying sound our champion’s head made as it pounded the metal, over and over again. The mood suddenly changed when The Pitbull's music filled the venue, and Andrei Arlovski stormed onto the scene. He wasted no time at all, running over to Rasuev and kicking him right in the middle of his face. Naturally a 3 way battle broke out, which 'Boris' The Referee, ring announcer Vlad Radinov and Steven Seagal gradually shepherded into the ring. These guys had been waiting a long time to kick the crap out of each other. There was a lot of enthusiasm. "Weeks and weeks of rivalry is finally coming to a head! There's so much animosity here that the ring can hardly contain them!" Offered our announcer Alex Koslov, using his Big Book Of Wrestling Clichés to great effect. After a couple of minutes the 3 enemies remembered that they were all wrestlers, and an actual wrestling match broke out. Above: The RFW National Title, in all its patriotic glory. Khubulov wanted nothing more than to kick Rasuev in the face until he looked like a Picasso, getting revenge for all those weeks out injured. Arlovski also wanted nothing more than to kick Rasuev in the face until he looked like a Picasso, also getting revenge for all those weeks out injured. They'd work together to deliver a hugely fun 2-on-1 ass-kicking, then the crafty Heel would find a clever way to escape. Realising the National Title was at stake, our two good guys would then beat the living crap out of each other. Rasuev would sneak back into the ring unseen, and attack while they weren't looking. This entertaining circle of amusing violence kept on repeating. It was great fun. So much fun, infact, that nobody gave a s*** that 'The Falcon' Kris Jokic was in the match. Whenever he was in the ring the other competitors were so busy settling old scores, they forgot him completely. Bewildered, the Croatian high-flyer spent his time chilling at ringside with The Arrows Of Russia. They drank Lightning Bolt. They posed for selfies. They smoked some cigars. The Arrows were assigned to protect Khubulov and Arlovski from Rasuev's vengeful plans while they were out injured, but with the competitors both back in action, they seemed surplus to requirements - just like Jokic. So naturally a beach ball was located, and an impromptu Volleyball game was organised with a section of the crowd. Jokic soon tired of all the ringside shenanigans, getting frustrated that his long-awaited title shot was passing him by. As Rasuev, Khubulov and Arlovski maimed each other in the centre of the ring, he ascended the top turnbuckle with grace. Like his namesake he then took to the sky, flattening them all with a beautiful Senton Splash. 'The Falcon' grabbed a leg and tried a pin, and nearly got lucky. There was a big 'oh s***' moment as Arlovski and Khubulov realised they'd completely overlooked 25% of the match's competitors. They rectified this by jumping on Jokic immediately, and pounding him into pudding. They then hauled his barely conscious ass into the air for an impressive Two Man Powerbomb, leaving the poor little b*****d completely out cold, face-down in the centre of the ring. Rasuev then saw them distracted, pounced on them both from behind with a Leaping Double Clothesline, and normal service resumed. The crowd were jumping up and down with joy as they spilled onto the outside, this match-up once again descending into the street fight their rivalry had threatened it would be. Rasuev picked up the giant, heavy metal ring steps and launched them at catastrophic speed... right into Arlovski's penis. He found a crowbar under the ring, which our stage guys had presumably used to set up earlier, squared up to Khubulov... and hit him right in the penis with it. Steven Seagal was furious, yelling at referee 'Boris' to disqualify his former protégé. But the fans insisted otherwise - even a one man army like Seagal knows better than to mess with 20,326 people - and so our Authority Figure was over-ruled. Rasuev responded by grabbing the big, heavy ring bell from the Timekeeper's Table... and hitting Khubulov in the penis with it. He found a hilariously big chain, wrapped it ceremoniously around his fist... and... you guessed it... hit Arlovski in the penis with it. The fans hated Rasuev, but they liked this dastardly tactic of crotch-mauling even more. They were going wild for this s***, getting louder and louder with each ridiculous yet entertaining assault. That was, until the bell suddenly rang ending the match. The fans wanted Seagal and our referee's heads in a basket, booing and jeering furiously, assuming that a Disqualification had ended their fun. But then they saw ring announcer Vlad Radinov laying the RFW National Title carefully over Kris Jokic's unconscious body. They caught on fast to what had happened, and they liked it. "Ladies and gentlemen, your winner by Count Out... and the NEW Russian Federation Of Wrestling National Champion... Kris Jokic!!" Radinov announced, with a big smile on his face. Everyone loves an underdog. The fans were surprised but quickly got behind their unlikely new champion... who was still completely lifeless and unaware on the canvas. As Arlovski and Khubulov skulked away licking their wounds, Rasuev was livid at ringside. He was screaming about 'conspiracies' and 'injustices' at the top of his lungs, swinging punches and trying to bite anyone who came near. Watching half the roster and a huge mob of security guys haul his ass away just made an already nice moment even more special Match Rating: 57. After a news break which crawled so far up Vladimir Putin’s arse it may as well have been filmed inside his colon, the wrestling finally resumed. We're backstage with World Champion Ilja Dragunov and his mentor Steven Seagal. The gloriously-shirted Vlad Radinov is on interview duty. Our energy drink pedaling Authority bigs up his guy big time, ahead of his match with Edge. He describes him as "a new kind of athlete" and "a new generation of warrior - stronger, faster, more unstoppable than any that have come before." He's not done. "This is a specimen whose performance levels exceed any other fighter anywhere on the globe. A physical beacon befitting the glorious nation he so proudly represents. He is the spirit and soul of Russia made flesh. He will bring glory to us all once again tonight!" No pressure then. Angle Rating: 77. Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov is in the ring. He is psyched. He is primed. He is ready. His mentor Edge is also in the ring. He is focused. He is alert. He also is ready. Both have their eyes locked on the entrance ramp, waiting for their enemy 'The Fabulous' John Hennigan to appear. "Man, they look ready" proclaims Roy Jones Jr with admiration. "Whatever this match throws at them, these two are certainly ready for it!" Adds Rico Bushido, in a moment of commentating excellence for the ages. Ringside we see Ivan 'The Body' Markov. He is primed. He is pumped. He is ready. He too awaits Hennigan, and the cute little 'spiritual guru' he wants revenge on. "The fans are ready. The fighters are ready. Let's get this grudge match started" declares Alex Koslov, adding the proverbial cherry to the cake. Everyone's on the edge of their seats as 'The Fabulous One's' music hits. There's pink smoke. There's magenta-coloured lasers. Fluttering flower petals fall from the sky. But after what seems like an eternity... there's nobody in sight. Seagal, returning to his seat at ringside, looks pissed. "Radinov! Wherever you are backstage, find that idiot and get his pretty-boy ass out here" he orders, cracking his massive knuckles with disdain. Angle Rating: 60. An annoyed looking Vlad Radinov is in Hennigan's dressing room. He's about to start yelling at Hennigan for being late, but what he sees stops him in his tracks. The man's redecorated. Everything's turned pink. The walls are pink. The ceiling's pink. The door's pink. A thick, neon pink zebra skin pattern rug covers the floor. The chairs are pink. The giant portrait of Vladimir Putin that's installed in every dressing room has been taken down, replaced by a massive photo of the pop singer Pink. 'Pink' by Aerosmith plays in the background from a big pink Bluetooth speaker. We're talking thermonuclear levels of pinkness here. Everything's so pink it's even turning this font pink. Also pink is Radinov's face, from anger. "Hennigan you idiot! You're meant to be in the ring! 20,326 people are waiting for you! The whole of Russia waits for your pampered, well-moisturised ass! What the hell are you doing?! Get out of this dressing room right now!" He stomps his feet in a rage, to really let everyone know he means business. "It's not a dressing room. It's a salon" says Hennigan in an extremely relaxed, nonchalant voice. The camera moves across to where 'The Fabulous One' is reclined. He reads Cosmopolitan while a vaguely familiar figure frantically manicures his nails. Another kind-of familiar figure is in the background, feeding tiny little bits of fillet steak to a tiny little dog. "Have you seen the state of this city, Radinov? No wonder these people drink so much Vodka. I look at Moscow and I see and endless sea of drab, soul-less buildings, lifeless grey architecture. Ugliness everywhere. It must crush the spirit to live in such a miserable hell hole." "I'm on a mission to spritz this place up - to give his dreary cesspit some glitz and some glamour. Russia needs sparkle. It needs to shine. I'm making it my duty to bring some style and some verve to a nation that's about as fun as a stab wound to the lung. And to achieve this, I have enlisted some help, because I fear the aid of my spirit guide Gerald will not be enough for such a Herculean task." Hennigan waves a pampered hand towards his two new friends. Radinov nearly s***s feathers when he notices who they are. "Peter Tihanyi! Bence Toth! What the tapdancing hell are you doing here! You should be by the side of your comrade Seagal! Not here ironing silk scarves for this flower-scented weirdo! Tihanyi - why the hell are you brushing a small dog?! What the hell has happened to you man?!" The silken-haired American didn't miss a beat with his answer. "These two strapping specimens were being wasted by Seagal. This Russian Federation Of Wrestling had them doing nothing. So I put them to work. It is with their help that the wretched, boring places we visit shall be transformed with glamour and sophistication. We are The Hennigan Style Squad! And we're here to liven things up!" Having made his grand announcement, the self-proclaimed 'Fabulous One' slung one of his gloriously elaborate coats over his shoulders and made his way to the door, his newly-christened 'Style Squad' following closely behind. Angle Rating: 58. Alexandr ‘Vertigo’ Klapstov (with Edge) vs ‘The Fabulous’ John Hennigan (with the ‘Style Squad’ of Peter Tihanyi and Bence Toth. And Gerald, of course.) By the time Hennigan and his merry band of followers got to the ring, our Russian fans were pissed. They hated him anyway, but holding up the whole show just to finish his beauty treatment really pushed them over the edge. They were throwing trash at the guy, which made him freak out - what if some of their garbage got in his beautiful hair?! ~ The ex-hacker Vertigo capitalised on this distraction, attacking whenever Hennigan had his eyes elsewhere. It was smart - he knew his opponent was the larger, more experienced, more talented wrestler - so used cunning tactics to get ahead instead. After a few close pinfalls, Hennigan's new 'Style Squad' saw their boss in trouble and started interfering. The self-proclaimed 'Digital Messiah' held his own for a while against a pair of fighters who were about as intimidating as Barney The Purple Dinosaur. But when Hennigan started attacking too, it was 3-on-1 and our dweeby Russian was in trouble. Cue the Mandatory Edge Interference Segment, which got the loudest pop of the night so far. Up stepped Bence Toth - only to be vapourised by a Spear. Peter Tihanyi came forward and ate a Spear too. And Hennigan took a Spear too, just for kicks. The latter turned out to not be a very smart move... because flattening Hennigan unleashed hell. And by 'Hell' I mean 'Gerald'. "Oh s***!" Screamed a terrified 'Rated R Superstar', who then dived out of the ring as if someone had thrown a live grenade in there. In an action-packed career spanning decades, Edge fought dangerous enemies of every size and style - but nobody as lethal as Gerald. It was fun watching the bazillion-time WWE Tag and World Champion being chased round and round the ring, running for his life from a foe the size of a medium American burger. But it was the only thing he could do - those vicious fangs spelled instant death. The gruesome mauling Sergey Belyev got in Episode 10 would've been a tickling contest in comparison. Fortunately the Canadian veteran was spared excruciating disembowelment... as soon as Gerald spotted Ivan 'The Body' Markov at ringside he changed direction and went in for the kill. As the big, muscular Russian was getting maimed, an actual wrestling match had somehow occurred in the ring. An athletic contest between two fairly gifted high-flyers that was actually... good. No weapons. No shenanigans. No bulls***. Just actual wrestling. Done well. By actual wrestlers. The 20,326 fans couldn't believe their eyes as they watched the action. Hennigan eventually got the upper hand though, due to him being a little slicker, a little more experienced and... well... a little more good at wrestling. The man they call Vertigo tried the tricks that'd got him the victory last time. He grabbed a laptop he'd stashed under the ring and started typing furiously. Just like last time he'd deviously hacked into the venue's systems. Just like last time the lights went off and on, the pyros all went off, the entrance music played off and on... but this time John Hennigan wasn't distracted by all that. He'd seen all this before. Instead he retaliated with an almighty Superkick, which smashed the laptop screen into a thousand tiny pieces. "Noooooooooo!" Screamed the geeky Russian, cradling the broken computer in his arms like a dying lover. 'The Fabulous One' seized the moment, hitting his 'Starship Pain' signature move. People got distracted by the pampering and perfume and forgot what a damn fine wrestler Hennigan is. I still say Starship Pain is one of the most ridiculously awe-inspiring moves ever unleashed in wrestling. I still can't comprehend how a human body can twist like that. Especially when the lad doing it is 43 years old. The pin was made. The end was nigh. This one was over, the fans booing with vicious venom as our official 'Boris' counted... 1... 2... but no. The victory was snatched from 'The Fabulous One' as 241lbs of Canadian veteran landed right on his head, breaking the pinfall and knocking Hennigan goofy in the process. The fans booed loudly as 'Boris' actually did some real refereeing for once and banished Edge from the ring. This bought time for Klaptsov / Vertigo to regain his senses. Unfortunately it also allowed 'The Style Squad' to get back in the ring. The trash throwing started up again when another 3-on-1 ass-kicking broke out. But Vertigo's mentor had the solution. "Use the laptop!" Screamed Edge. "I can't! It's broken" squealed Klaptsov as his well-groomed foes kicked his arse from one side of the ring to the other. "No, you moron! Like this!" Suddenly Edge was on the ring canvas, brandishing the laptop like a baseball bat. The thud it made as it clonked Bence on the back of the skull was epic. He threw the laptop to Vertigo, and the dorky Russian almost took Peter Tihanyi's head off with it. Hennigan, still dazed from Edge jumping on his head to break the pinfall, was too groggy to save himself. Up went the laptop. Down went the American. 1, 2, 3 went the referee. Ballistic with joy went the fans. The ovation was huge. It wasn't so much their excitement at Vertigo winning. It was more their hatred of the pampered, style-obsessed American. Seeing him and his two 'stylists' laid out cold was the highlight of their year. Russia won. America lost. The flags came out. Anthems of national glory were sung by all of our drunken, Lightning Bolt-addled fans. Vertigo and Edge soaked up the noise. Mission accomplished, I felt, as we cut to an ad break of wholesome, patriotic messages. Match Rating: 55. Backstage, our normally care-free, laid-back interviewer Vlad Radinov was trembling. His hands were shaking. His teeth rattled with fear. "Erm... erm..." he stuttered in terror, his normal flair with words deserting him among the fog of fear-driven adrenaline. "I... erm... this... we..." the poor guy was so petrified he'd lost control of his tongue. The part of his brain that processed words had deserted him. He gulped. He froze. The beginnings of tears welled up in his eyes. The camera zoomed out and we soon saw why. The poor, unfortunate, jazzy-shirted b*****d was trapped in a room with 'The Nightmare' Vladimir Kulakov. "Help!" our interviewer mouthed helplessly to our camera guys. He started making a weird, repetitive whispering sound beneath his breath - was he praying? The big, masked Russian began cracking his knuckles menacingly. It sounded like someone was smashing rocks with a claw-hammer. The sound made our fearful 'Party Tsar' snap out of it long enough to (sort of) string together an actual question. "Bryan Daniels is your opponent tonight... and... is seemingly re-energised... and... ah... erm..." his voice trailed off into silence, disappearing like a flushed turd. "Mommy!" he squealed almost silently, as the scary Russian started snarling. His fear only grew as Kulakov's 'mentor' Steven Seagal arrived on the scene. "Since the concussions that ended his WWE in-ring career, Daniels has been a shell of his former self. He came to Russia with hopes of an easy ride. But my plan was to test his spirit, to see what fires still burned in his soul. I would test him in the heat of adversary never before witnessed in his career, and he would either be re-forged, or be consumed and destroyed in the flames of battle." "My student Vladimir Kulakov has pushed Daniels to his limits, and beyond. He has taken him beyond his psychological breaking point. He has taken him further down the abyss than he has ever dared to go. And to his eternal credit, we have seen Daniels reborn from the flames of his despair like a phoenix." "Does... does this mean you believe Daniels stands a chance... against..." muttered Radinov nervously. "No" smiled Seagal. "But that man's heroic destruction will be a magnificent spectacle. One befitting this marvelous occasion and the fine country it represents." The hockey-mask wearing monster snarled in agreement. The scene faded to black just in time to hide our interviewer running for his life. Angle Rating: 68. “Aaaaaaaagh! Oh my God! OH MY GOD!" Commentator Alex Koslov got so giddy he jumped into the air and threw his big, fluffy Russian hat into the crowd. Our announce team had just gone bat-s*** crazy with excitement. "This must be a dream! This cannot be real! I can't believe it!" Rico Bushido had begun fanning himself frantically to avoid fainting. Maybe they were going a little overboard - partly due to them all inhaling massive amounts of Lightning Bolt Energy Drink during the break. But their excitement was real. The 20,326 fans in attendance were dancing with excitement too. Mothers were hugging children. Strangers were high-fiving each other. Men wept. It was the biggest display of joyous emotion since Goldberg's big debut. Or Bryan Daniels. Or Edge. It was time for our the last Quarter Final of our Tag Team Tournament. We'd promised some of the biggest names in wrestling would be involved. And we really weren't kidding (this time). Why was everyone so excited? Why the sudden tidal wave of euphoria? Because we pulled back the curtain... and this guy walked out... Once the mass elation had died down, the Legendary Sting was kind enough to grace us with a promo. I can't remember what he said - I was too busy patting myself on the back for managing to snag one of the biggest names in wrestling - but I bet whatever came out of his mouth was brilliant. His tag partner and protégé Derby Allin was there too, looking small and awkward, standing there in the background like a midgetised version of the legend he shared a ring with. The Russians who didn't know who Allin was just drunkenly assumed he was Sting's b*****d lovechild or something. Who knows, maybe he is? And then it was time to unveil their tag team partners. The fans got nearly as excited when these guys showed up... Sting and Mini-Sting's opponents for the night literally couldn't be more successful, coming to the Russian Federation Of Wrestling as AEW, ROH, TNA, NJPW / IWGP, AAA, TIT and ARSE champions. I may have made a couple of those initials up in my excitement. On top of that, they're ex-WWE Smackdown and Raw tag champs and ex-NXT tag champs, making them the only WWE Triple Crown winning team in history. I hear they're so ridiculously successful that feds are just mailing their titles to FTR now, just to save time. They might not be quite as famous in Russia as in the USA, but there was still 'electricity in the air' as ol' J.R would say. Let's just say that as these four squared up, ready to do battle, expectations were rather high... Angle Rating: 65. Sting & Darby Allin vs For The Revival (FTR) – The Last Quarter Final Of The RFW Tag Title Tournament ...and they absolutely knocked it out of the park. For The Revival - or FTR as the cool kids call them - are 'the embodiment of old-school wrestling'. I'm genuinely convinced nobody actually knows what the f*** that means, but we went with it. Dax Harwood and Cash Wheeler absolutely lit up that ring. They were brilliant. But the weird thing is I honestly can't tell you why. Theirs is the most no-frills, no-bulls*** form of wrestling you can imagine. No stunts. No ridiculous spots. Just honest-to-goodness rasslin' - the kind that died out back in the 1970s - the kind you'd think today's generation of wrestling fans would s*** all over - but it was great, our cynical Russian fans loved it, and not a single person can explain the hell why. And then there's Sting. The man was 64 years old. His battered, destroyed old body was held together with nothing but cobwebs and spite. Yet everything the guy did looked amazing. This guy could sit on a sofa scratching his balls and somehow it would be an awe-inspiring, transcendent moment of wrestling. The guy should’ve been in a zimmerframe, not a ring, at his age. Yet he put on an absolute masterclass out there. As with FTR, everything he did just looked great. I don't know why. I don't know how. It just did. It's not for mere mortals like me to understand. I tried asking our Road Agent Shane Douglas about it. He started throwing words at me like 'fundamentals' and 'psychology' until the part of my brain that processes words ejected itself from my skull and splattered in a pile of goo all over the floor. Above: This guy has it all. He could accidentally s*** his pants and somehow still make it look cool. The match was great either because of, or in spite of, it's simplicity. FTR spent most of the match beating the crap out of Allin, isolating him in their corner, and finding wonderfully elaborate ways of stopping him tagging. The whole aim was to build anticipation of Sting being in the ring up to cataclysmic levels. And it worked. The fans would reach fever pitch. Sting would finally get in. Brief moments of joyous destruction would occur as the Stinger raised hell, then back to Allin getting his face stomped on. We kept this game going until the fans got so loud the Cosmonauts in the International Space Station picked us up on their sensors. Derby nailed his role as Sacrificial Lamb. Sting relished his role as the wholesome legend just aching to get in on the action. Revival ate up their role as the wise veterans controlling proceedings like puppet masters. In the middle of all our ridiculous shenanigans, weapons and silly, over-the-top action, a truly fine wrestling match snuck into proceedings. It was one of those bouts where everyone had so much fun it didn't matter who won (it was Sting, by the way). It's amazing the highlights you can create with huge stacks of cash and no Russians. Match Rating: 66. I've worked with FTR's Dax Harwood and Cash Wheeler lots of times. I bump into them so regularly on my travels that we've started trading recipes. Both send me cards every Christmas. Yet I still don't know which of them is which. I know, it's terrible. But they both look exactly the God-damn same to me. After the match, Dax and Cash were visibly pissed about losing, but were good sports. The one with the facial hair, the frown and the leather jacket shook hands with Sting and Allin, congratulating them on their win. The other one with the facial hair, the frown and the leather jacket applauded the fans and thanked them for their support. Steven Seagal was in the ring too, basking in the glow of it all and looking smug. Dax Wheeler - or was it Cash Harwood? - got on the mic. Sting and Derby took their leave, graciously allowing FTR their big moment. Above: Dash and Cax? "Obviously we didn't get the result we wanted here tonight. But there's no shame in losing to an icon like Sting. We've locked horns in the past, and we knew this'd be one hell of a fight. So congratulations to you." Sting looked all modest and humble. Allin looked pissed because somebody had stolen his skateboard (but more on that another time). Now it was Dash Harlweeler's time to talk. "We didn't get chance to unleash hell like we know we can. We didn't get chance to show you all what we can do. So we'd love the chance to come back again and really kick some ass!" The fans loved that. So did Seagal - his leathery, weathered, expressionless old face almost cracked a smile. "So here's an open challenge! Whoever steps up gets to face us on your TV show in a few days!" The fans roared with excitement, and continued cheering as a familiar couple of faces charged to the ring. "It's the Arrows Of Russia!" Shouted commentator Roy Jones Jr, as four guys with facial hair, frowns, hairy chests and leather jackets now shared a ring. They all stared each other down menacingly. And just like that the match was made. Angle Rating: 58 We were about to cut to a big promo hyping Vladimir Putin's big speech later in the night. But suddenly the lights went out. Just like in the weeks before, thousands of candles all lit at once and the venue filled with a haunting, eerie smoke. The dissonant tones of Rotting Christ filled the air. And suddenly Damien Black and his acolytes The Dark Church Of Satan were in the ring. Above: Spooky. The Arrows jumped in with fists swinging, but got swatted like flies by Black and his Satanic stooges. FTR went in guns blazing, but their kicks and punches had no impact at all on Black and his henchmen, who seemed possessed by some malevolent force. The fans were really, really pissed when FTR had their own finishing move The Goodnight Express (which I think sounds cooler than it's other name, the 'Shatter Machine') done on them, laying them out cold. The Satanic Death metal got even louder as The Dark Church stood over their fallen victims, flames dancing around them, sparks falling from the sky. Steven Seagal was beside himself with rage that another tag tournament bout had been marred by Black and The Church - he had to be held back by half the roster. As the scene faded to black, we saw Sting at ringside, looking on with horror at what he'd just witnessed. Angle Rating: 59. When we returned, Seagal was still in a rage at ringside, still being restrained by half of the tough guys in Russia. Damien Black was still in the ring with his two hooded followers, laughing manically. "I've had it with this guy! Black, it's about time your creepy, hellfire-and-brimstone ass got the kicking it's been deserving for weeks now! I've had enough of these senseless attacks, of this seemingly random violence! Goldberg! Get your ass in here and run this punk ass down!" Goldberg was happy to. He charged to the ring like he had a rocket up his ass. He'd been a shadow of his former self since losing his rematch with World Champion Ilja Dragunov. He looked a lost soul for weeks. But right here, right now, he looked revitalised - perhaps psyched up by our biggest ever crowd and his win earlier in the night. He hurled himself between the ropes and charged at the first warm-blooded opponent he could see. "Spear! Spear! One of Black's acolytes just got cut in half!" yelled announcer Alex Koslov. Goldberg grabbed his fallen prey and pulled back the hood on his cloak. "I recognise that face! That's Ronni Krimson!" Yelled commentator Rico Bushido. "What the hell?! How long's he been in league with this dark cult?! How long has he been living this secret life as part of the Dark Church?!" Shouted Roy Jones Jr. Our commentary team did a great job of pretending they knew who the hell Krimson was. They really did a good job of making it seem he wasn't just one of Seagal's anonymous, shirtless Russians until now. Above: You could be cool like our commentator Roy Jones Jr and pretend that you totally knew who the hell this guy was before now... The bell rang. Ronni Krimson and the other, still anonymous follower made their escape. Damien Black stared at his opponent with a demonic grin. The match began. Angle Rating: 57. As Goldberg and Black locked up, a big crowd of people gathered at the top of the ramp to watch Damien presumably get his comeuppance. All the teams who'd suffered seemingly random, violent beat-downs from The Dark Church Of Satan were watching keenly. The Viking Raiders. 2 Cool. Lykos Gym. The Arrows Of Russia. All praying for Goldberg to dispense some justice. All these teams had wanted to deliver their own revenge on the Dark Church. But Seagal had stopped them all. Our Authority Figure's motives were two-fold: Victory for Goldberg would shake the noisy old legend out of his funk, bringing back the wrecking ball we all remember. And it would eradicate the parasite that was Black's dark faction at the same time. Goldberg was up for it. He was psyched. He was riding high after his victory over Marty Scurll earlier on. And we'd fed him enough Lightning Bolt Energy Drink to flatten an elephant. The newly-energised Goldberg charged at Black with a flurry of blows, going at the corpse-painted Dutchman like he was 35 again. A furious battle broke out with both of them in full-on attack mode. The problem was that everything Black landed did damage. Nothing Goldberg did made Damien even flinch. Regrouping, Goldberg put his old mind games into action, locking onto his opponent with the intense, intimidating stare that had psyched out opposition all over the globe. It was all there - snarl and all. But Black didn't give a s*** - he wasn't scared at all, despite being noticeably smaller than his American foe. Having failed to win the psychological battle, Goldberg reverted to his tried-and-tested ways - he went for the Spear. Black saw it coming a mile off, countering blunt force with agility, side-stepping it easily. Again and again Goldberg tried the Spear. Black looked like a graceful matador out there, effortlessly dancing out of the charging bull's way. The grizzled veteran was getting frustrated. Out of nowhere, Goldberg grabbed Black, using his impressive strength to haul him up vertically into the air. But Black had seen this before a thousand times, smoothly twisting his body to escape the Jackhammer attempt. Goldberg tried again. Again Black slid free. A third attempt. A third easy, confident escape. It was like a dance to the Satanic-looking challenger, who was laughing devilishly now. He wasn't just one step ahead, he was having fun in there. "This Damien Black must be something - he's shrugging off everything Goldberg throws at him! What skill!" Shouted Rico Bushido enthusiastically. "He's good. Real good. But it's not just that. I warned Goldberg weeks ago that he needed to evolve. I told him that there's a whole new class of athletes here in Russia. I said he needed to adapt, to change his style. But he's not doing that, and this new generation of fighters like Black have him scouted" said Roy Jones Jr wisely. Goldberg was panting for air now, his frustration boiling over into rage. In a blind fury he lashed out with a kick. It was an absolute 'Hail Mary' shot, but he got lucky. The kick hit Black right under the chin, flooring him. The Devil-worshipping Dutchman looked shocked as he cleverly rolled out of the ring to recover. Immediately the acolytes leaped in to buy their master time. The one we now knew was Ronni Krimson leaped off the top rope, attempting a big Springboard Hurricanrana. But the powerful American used his strength to catch him in mid-air, lift him back up, and Powerbomb the living crap out of him. The Russian bounced clean out of the ring. Suddenly, despite gassing heavily, the spring seemed to be back in Goldberg's step. The second, still unidentified acolyte pounced into the ring now, springboarding off the top rope into a Missile Dropkick. But Goldberg saw it coming and Speared him in mid-air. The cloaked follower looked like he'd been hit by an 18 Wheeler. "Holy crap! He decimated him! Eviscerated him!" Yelled commentator Alex Koslov joyfully, as the acolyte fell out of the ring like a ragdoll. Seeing his followers getting squashed, Black slid back into the ring. He went on the attack, but was still clearly shaken by the kick. Goldberg grabbed his groggy opponent, and hit the Jackhammer out of nowhere. The impact was huge. "Take that you weird, spooky-looking Dutch b*****d!" Screamed Goldberg triumphantly. "I'm back!" He shouted, as much to himself as anyone else. He dived on his fallen foe. Referee 'Boris' did the count. 1... 2... But no! Black managed to get an arm to the bottom rope. "What did we just witness?! Nobody escapes the Jackhammer! Nobody!" Rico Bushido was so shocked he nearly choked on his Lightning Bolt energy drink. "It was perfectly executed. Black was finished. Goldberg just got unlucky - Damien just landed too close to the ropes" opined Koslov. "He mustn't let this get to him. The momentum's still his! One more big move and he's done!" Shouted Roy Jones Jr, as much to Goldberg as to the viewers at home. But Goldberg looked devastated. Disheartened. You could see the energy drain from him, replaced by doubt and panic. The fans were booing the fallen Black loudly, and the leader of the Dark Church Of Satan seemed to feed off this. With a demonic smile, he sat back up, climbing back to his feet with laughter. "What?! It can't be! That's not possible! He can't be human!" Hollered Bushido breathlessly as Black seemed to fully recover from a maneuver that has ended countless careers. Goldberg was exhausted. He was demoralised. He'd tried everything. But his opponent was still standing, still laughing at him. But what he did next shocked everyone. Shaking his head, he just rolled under the bottom rope... turned his back on the ring... and walked away. The fans were shocked as our referee began the count, as Goldberg disappeared further up the ramp... onto the stage... then through the curtains. The bell rang. The fans were almost silent with shock and disbelief. Ring announcer Vlad Radinov sounded stupefied too as he made it official. "Ladies and gentlemen! Your winner, by count out, Damien Black!" The sound of '666' by Rotting Christ almost drowned out the tidal wave of boos that filled our arena. Almost. The commentators were in shock. They didn't know what to say. Our Authority Steven Seagal just shook his head at ringside, his face a picture of distain. Nobody could believe it. The unstoppable, fearless Bill Goldberg just turned his back and walked out. Again. Match Rating: 59. "YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES! YES!" Bryan Daniels and Vladimir Kulakov were in the ring ahead of their hotly-anticipated encounter... and the scruffy-looking legend was promo-ing and 'Yes'-ing the crap out of the situation. He probably said other words too. Whatever. The bearded, plaid shirt enthusiast whipped our crowd into an absolute frenzy. Absolutely bat s*** crazy. The masked Russian wasn't even slightly fazed - and as the bell rang he showed it, charging like a bull, damn-near decapitating the hairy Yank with the biggest Clothesline the Eastern Hemisphere had ever seen. Angle Rating: 76. ‘The Nightmare’ Vladimir Kulakov vs ‘American Dragon’ Bryan Daniels – Last Man Standing Match There was a time, just a few weeks ago, that Daniels would've been scared s***less. He'd have curled into a ball and wept not long ago, when confronted by his 'demon' Kulakov (Seagal's words, not mine). But this was Daniels v2.0: Reborn. A man freed from his fears and inhibitions. A wrestler unburdened by the shadows of the injuries that once derailed his career. He needed all that new bravery - Kulakov was like a maniac in there. The demented Russian fought like his life depended on it. It took everything Daniels had to withstand the onslaught. Kulakov was like a demented whirlwind of offense. Daniels blocked blow after blow, using every bit of his Shoot Fighting experience to stop the maniac's powerful shots. He was in extreme defence mode, waiting for the moment his opponent would tire. But he didn't. Kulakov seemed unstoppable. The attacks just never seemed to stop. Daniels rolled to the outside to try to catch a breather, but 'The Nightmare' just followed him to the outside, still pelting the American with endless punches and kicks. Soon the Russian was throwing steel ring steps at him. Then the Time-keeper's bell. Anything he could get his hands on. A breeze-block was thrown with deadly force, missing Bryan's face by millimetres. A metal scaffolding pole from under the ring would've smashed Daniels' skull had he not moved just in time. It was a tidal wave of violence that seemed unending. Kulakov looked more than human. He was like a monster out there. He grabbed a fan at ringside and threw the poor, terrified b*****d out of his seat. Grabbing the steel chair he was sat on, Kulakov went to business trying to separate Daniels' head from his shoulders with it. The 'American Dragon' was covered in sweat from the constant defensive manoeuvres he was having to resort to. This was meant to be a Last Man Standing match, the aim being to knock your opponent down and let the referee count to 10, hoping the other competitor doesn’t get up. But all that went out the window – the moment Daniels hit the canvas, ‘The Nightmare’ was grabbing him again for another attack. No matter what was unleashed, our official never seemed to get higher than a 1 or a 2. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of punishment, the masked maniac finally missed, swinging wildly with the chair. As Daniels ducked, the chair slammed into the metal ring post, sending 'The Nightmare' stumbling sideways. Daniels, in the form of his life, seized this split-second opening, connecting with a huge Running Dropkick which sent the chair smashing into the Russian's face. Immediately the masked juggernaut was back on his feet, but the momentum had shifted. It was finally Daniels' turn to bring the offence. Every shot was delivered with a venom and ferocity previously unseen in the former WWE champion. Each blow he inflicted would've felled an oak. But the crazy Russian barely flinched. With great poise and agility, Daniels uncorked his entire arsenal of big moves. That cool Front Missile Drop Kick he does sent Kulakov flying into the guardrails, scaring the living Jesus out of the front four rows of fans, but leaving Vladimir totally unhurt. That sweet Running Knee Strike Thingy connected flush, making a sound like a truck driving into a brick wall, but all it did was snap Daniels's kneepad. A big Fall-away Suplex onto the concrete floor did nothing but damage the concrete floor. A huge Piledriver onto the metal ring steps made nothing but scrap metal. After every big move, Daniels gestured for the referee to begin his 10-count, but his inhuman opponent was back on his feet after barely a second or two. Somehow Daniels got his opponent into the ring and tried his feared Cattle Mutilation submission, with enough force to snap both a normal person's shoulders - but 'The Nightmare' casually just stood up with Daniels on his back like a barnacle, walked about a bit, before nonchalantly tossing the American to the canvas. Pro Wrestling Illustrated called the Cattle Mutilation submission "one of the deadliest finishing moves of all time." Kulakov seemed rather tickled by it. Slowly the fire and the belief were draining from the American Dragon's eyes. He was hitting Kulakov with everything. He was inflicting punishment that would have rendered a dozen opponents unconscious. But the psychotic Russian wasn't even slowing down. The fans started going quiet, you could see everyone was worried the fear and the doubt would come back. His face was going pale. Daniels was starting to panic. And that's the moment he reached out blindly under the ring for a weapon. He didn't even see the massive brick that found its way into his hand, until he'd smashed Kulakov right in the middle of his face. The English language doesn't really have the words to describe the sound it made... but... imagine if an aeroplane fell out of the sky and crashed through a frozen lake. That smashing, shattering sound, on that scale. That's what the 20,326 fans who witnessed it all heard. There were pieces of hockey mask and broken brick all over the floor. A shocked silence filled the air. Kulakov's massive hands covered his face in horror. The monstrous Russian was making guttural, growling noises like a wounded bear. For the first time in the bout he was still. Frozen to the spot. Through the gaps between his fingers we could see something of a face - a glimpse of the human underneath. In that instant, the monster became mortal. He was human. A huge, overpowered, insanely strong, ridiculously tough, completely unhinged human... but still human. The fire and confidence suddenly rushed back into Daniels' face. It was a moment of revelation for him. Instantly he knew what to do. He had a plan... ...and that plan was to kick the absolute crap out of the Russian’s legs. Spinning kicks. Drop kicks. Standing kicks. Leaping kicks. Roundhouse kicks. Sliding kicks. Karate kicks. Jiu Jitsu kicks. All the kicks. Lots of kicks. Types of kicks which the world of combat sports is yet to name. Kicks previously unseen in the history of television. So, so, so many kicks. Daniels was chopping Kulakov down like a tree. For the first time ever ‘The Nightmare’ appeared to be taking damage. And after about 5 minutes of the kicky-est bombardment in wrestling history... the mighty oak that was Kulakov finally fell. He was down, still clutching his face, trying to hold the broken pieces of his mask together. Referee ‘Boris’ began the count. Seagal screamed orders in Russian at ringside. But the fallen Kulakov was oblivious, too distracted by his broken mask and damaged legs to be aware of what was going on around him. There was nothing our Authority Figure or any of the 20,326 fans screaming in the stands could do as our official reached 8... 9... 10! After Daniels' victory the fans hit our referee 'Boris' with a tidal wave of boos. They were pissed. How dare a 'Russian' referee allow an American such a victory? In reality, however, our referee is Greek, doesn't give a s*** what anybody thinks, and reacted by stealing a beer from some dude in the front row, and necking it in one ginormous gulp. The burp was magnificent. Match Rating: 68. One of the stipulations of the bout was that if Kulakov lost, he had to show the world the man behind the mask. He did. And this happened: That’s the face that now greets me each night, when I close my eyes to sleep. Part of me wishes he’d kept the damn thing on. Angle Rating: 76. Suddenly a ripple of excitement ran through the crowd like a wave rolling to the shore. Sections of fans were on their feet, turning and scrambling for a better view of something high up in the arena. Our cameras zoomed in on the commotion, following their gaze upwards. Soon we saw what everyone was clamoring to see. Immediately a ‘spontaneous’ round of applause broke out, as up in the VIP Balcony, Vladimir Putin himself took his seat. Even without the audience reaction you could tell he’d arrived. Because the birds stopped singing. The air fell cold. And all the joy dropped out of the place like a wet, heavy turd. 20,326 fans were on their feet in a flash, clapping their hands. Putin’s supporters among the crowd shouted patriotic slogans because they were really, really, really thrilled to see their glorious leader was among them. Those who were less fond of the guy also showed their support, because they were really, really, really big fans of not getting shot. Putin was supposed to be in attendance from the start of the show, but had been held up on ‘official’ business. He was obviously a busy man doing whatever it is crackpot homicidal despots fill their hours with. He must’ve had decrees to sign, or battle plans to inspect, or flags to wave, or death squads to marshal, or elections to rig, or gays to persecute, or peaceful protests to tear-gas, or... whatever. He was here. And just in time to watch two guys maim each other in a cage in the name of wholesome family entertainment. The moment his arse was in that chair we lowered the steel and rang the bell. Ilja Dragunov vs Edge – Steel Cage Match – For The RFW World Title Ilja was feeling confident as he had almost every Russian (and nearly-Russian) on the roster stood outside the cage, watching his back. Edge looked confident too, even though he just had the geeky-looking ex-hacker Vertigo on the other side of the cage, watching his. This was the high-action encounter we’d all hoped for. I smiled proudly as every cage match cliché was ticked off the list, one by one: Both competitors try to bang each other's heads against the cage, but their attempts are blocked - only to miraculously lose this ability later in the match. Before the bell rings, both competitors must try shaking the sides of the cage, as if to test it's sturdiness. It is mandatory to then pull a worried face, as if to say 'oh s*** this thing's real!' It is essential to raise the opponent horizontally over one shoulder, then launch them face-first into the cage wall. It'a not a proper cage match if someone isn't hurled into the steel like a f***ing dart. Strangely the opponent will do nothing to stop this happening, as if blissfully unaware of the big metallic headrush they're about to receive. Thou shalt rub your opponent's face against the metal cage wall, using it like a cheese grater on their skull. The opponent must scream like a bitch throughout. (Although, to be fair, I would too if that happened to me.) The whole point of a Cage Match is to trap the competitors in the ring with each other, allowing them to beat each other senseless until their feud is settled. That's literally the whole reason for these things - 'there can be no escape'. So naturally both competitors must spend an inordinate amount of time trying to do exactly that. Despite this being a contest between two muscular, almost physically superhuman athletes, it is mandatory that the walls be climbed as slowly as possible. Every Cage Match has competitors scaling the sides at the speed of a frail, geriatric pensioner with an incontinence problem - it's the law. Despite having spent so much of the bout building up the drama of climbing to escape the cage, about half way through someone will suddenly remember there's a door, and try that much more sensible option instead. Neither man could really get ahead though. Every time Dragunov found his rhythm, Vertigo would find ways of distracting him. Every time Edge built momentum, he had half the population of Russia on the outside distracting him. The stalemate continued until suddenly ‘The Fabulous’ John Hennigan hopped over the guardrail, sneak attacking Vertigo from behind. After throwing the unsuspecting Klapstov head first into the guardrail a few times, he quickly ascended the side of the cage with cat-like agility, hitting a stunning Moonsault Press from about the half way mark. Vertigo was out cold. Hennigan yelled in triumphant satisfaction, pleased at achieving a measure of vengeance for the loss earlier. His celebration was cut short though when the big, muscular arm of Ivan ‘The Body’ Markov came crashing down across his back. “Markov’s here! He’s getting revenge too!” Yelled Alex Koslov in a glorious display of stating the obvious. There was then a lovely moment where Hennigan was lifted high into the air in a Gorilla Press Slam position, before being launched head-first into the outside of the cage like a human dart. The whole structure shook with the impact. ‘The Fabulous One’s new ‘Style Squad’ both ran away, squealing with fright. Hennigan and Vertigo lay unconscious on the floor as the victorious former bodybuilder flexed his muscles victoriously. But then he too was taken down, struck down by perhaps the most dangerous, most lethal force in all of wrestling. “It’s Gerald!” shouted Rico Bushido. “He’s doomed!” screamed Koslov in fright. The big, tough Russian was shrieking in pain as the tiny, fluffy little dog lunged fangs-first at his face. The sight of him running laps around the cage, sobbing and shouting as the pampered little pooch enveloped his skull like one of those Face Huggers from Alien, was a highlight of the whole show. Finally the terrified Russian managed to prize the savage beast off him, sending the plucky little pooch flying through the air towards Dragunov’s crowd of Russian tough guys... who all screamed and ran for their lives. The sight of a dozen or so big, vicious, menacing fighters screaming and running like children was as majestic as it was memorable. Suddenly now all the outside interference was gone. Now there could be no more distractions. It was now down to Edge and Dragunov to finish the night with a bang. We'd fastened the cage door with the same oversized chain that Tamerlan Rasuev had been hitting people in the penis with earlier. Edge's main strategy seemed to be to work on unlocking this chain, so he could escape through the door. Every time Dragunov was floored, he'd rush over and keep loosening it. After a while he found it was quicker just to use Dragunov's head to smash the thing open. There were huge cheers as with one last almighty 'smash' the chain gave way and the cage door slid slowly open. Edge's plan had worked - all he had to do was jump out onto the floor and he'd be the new RFW World Champion. He had a huge smile all over his face. He could taste the victory. That was... until a split second later... when all he could taste was blood. The arena filled with boos and jeers as John Hennigan dived over the guardrail, putting his perfumed presence into proceedings for a second time. His two new 'style consultants' distracted our security... while 'The Fabulous One' slammed the steel cage door right in Edge's face. He went flying backwards, wearing the ‘crimson mask’ for the umpteenth time in his long, storied career. Hennigan was laughing his well-groomed ass off. "You interfered in my match! You cost me my victory, my revenge! How does it feel to have the tables turned on you, you big silly Canadian b****?!" He screamed, helpfully outlining his motives for the camera. Edge's protégé Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov leaped in to avenge his fallen mentor, lashing Hennigan with punches and kicks. It was only moments though before John's new 'Style Squad' cronies Bence Toth and Peter Tihanyi dragged him away to a quiet corner and started stomping a mudhole in him. A groggy Ilja Dragunov slowly got to his feet, clearly furious that another of his World Title Main Events had been marred by outside interference. Perhaps remembering all the crap he got from the fans last time he faced Edge - when half the roster helped him win - he called out to our Authority Figure Steven Seagal, who was watching the match from a plush ringside seat. “Do something! All of Russia is watching!” Pleaded our champion to his mentor. Seagal nodded, then raised a hand. The lights suddenly dimmed dramatically. An online fan actually timed it. They actually got a stopwatch and timed the gap between Seagal's signal and the first scream, as the first skull bounced off the concrete floor. It was 0.581 seconds. Even to this day, there are teams of scientists trying to work out how the hell 'The Nightmare' got into an ass-kicking position so fast. The two Style Squad dorks both got Chokeslammed at the same time. Above: If you ask me, he's just as scary with or without the mask. Hennigan put up a bit more of a fight, landing some ferocious Superkicks to the monster's (now unmasked) face. Kulakov took the full impact without flinching, waiting patiently for the onslaught to finish, before delivering a devastating Chokeslam for the ages. Vertigo loved every second of this and was jumping up and down with delight. In his excitement he foolishly tried to high five RFW's pet psycho. He had plenty of time to contemplate his mistake as he was lifted high into the air, before the Chokeslam turned out his lights completely. Kulakov looked around at the unmoving bodies scattered around him. Satisfied that nobody else was interfering, he easily mounted the cage door back onto it's hinges and re-locked it. It'd taken a team of four stagehands to do that, but Kulakov didn't even break a sweat. 'The Nightmare' then amusingly gave the 'thumbs up' signal, an un-natural, horrifying smile on his weird, creepy face. The match restarted with a roar from the fans. There’s still healthy online debate as to which minor factor made the telling difference between these two evenly-matched competitors. Many believe this was the exact day that Edge’s age finally caught up with him. Others point to the unprecedented motivation of having a whole nation hanging on your every move which may have pushed Dragunov further than ever in his career to date, giving him that intangible ‘x-factor’ to win the bout. Another credible theory is it was the blood loss – by now Edge’s shoulders, hair and chest were coated with the stuff. Not only was the blood-loss making him light-headed, it was running right into his eyes, affecting his vision. My theory is it was the Torpedo Moskau Flying Headbutt did it; I don’t care how good you are or how storied your career’s been – if some dude does a flying headbutt on you from 15 feet in the air, you’re toast. Edge didn’t just lose, he was in and out of consciousness all evening - he eventually woke up in a strange hospital ward with a rubber nappy on and a massive head-bandage, with no idea where he was how the hell he got there. Match Rating: 69. As the final bell echoed through the arena, the 20,326 fans were on their feet applauding their champion. The Russian national anthem boomed through the venue. The victorious Dragunov was covered in red, blue and white confetti and ribbons that fell from the sky. Every Russian and nearly-Russian on the roster ran over to our winner, hoisting him up onto their shoulders. The sound was deafening as everyone chanted "Ilja! Ilja!" In unison. Somewhere in the shadowy upper echelons of the arena, Vladimir Putin smiled proudly upon the man the propaganda machine called 'the human archetype of the modern Russia.' Dragunov roared with pride as the World Title was draped ceremoniously over his shoulder. The mood of joyous celebration continued well into the night. Meanwhile the Canadian challenger stood crestfallen in the ring, the consoling words of his protégé Vertigo falling on deaf ears. Soon his sadness turns to anger. He starts yelling in frustration. A mic is soon in his hands. "I got screwed! Again!" Edge shouts, kicking the side of the cage in temper. It was a convincing performance, considering how glassy his eyes were, and the fact that even to this day he can’t remember saying a single word of it In stepped Seagal to dispense some Eastern wisdom. "No, little bear, you did not get screwed. I promised you that none of my Russian students would interfere in your match - and they didn't. I even put a big steel cage around you both to protect you from outsiders. Those who did insert themselves did so on the orders of an effeminate American you and your Kohai started a feud with. You interfered in Hennigan's bout, so don't cry when he interferes in yours." Edge is pissed, but he knows Seagal is right. That doesn't make him any less upset though. He looked angry. And more than just a little concussed. But definitely angry. Seagal had a plan. "You want revenge against Hennigan? How about you and your buddy Klapstov..." Suddenly he was interrupted by an unexpected voice near-by. "And me!" Yelled Ivan 'The Body' Markov who'd appeared magically at ringside. He wanted revenge against Hennigan (and his little dog) too. Our Authority Figure sighed, shook his head, then continued. "Fine. Whatever. Edge. Vertigo. Markov. You three go in the main event of Episode 11 against Hennigan and any two partners of his choice." The fans who weren't too busy celebrating Dragunov cheered in delight at this impromptu match. Edge was still s***ting thunder and trying really hard not to fall over, but his protégé Klapstov was cheering him up with the idea of revenge. As the wrestling drew to a close amid a sea of Russian flags, fireworks and patriotic chants, a big smug smile found it's way onto my normally pale, stressed-out face. We'd done good. Angle Rating: 70. Overall Show Rating: 65.

Hello, sexy people of the internet!!! We last checked in on The Russian Federation Of Wrestling as they were about to embark upon their biggest ever show - the so-called 'Event Of The Century' - which will be posted very shortly. Unfortunately, because of dead laptops, the unique and potent kind of sleep deprivation that comes with having waaaaay too many children, and various other random reasons... it has been about 500 years since anyone read this diary. So before the show (which is longer than some people's whole dynasties) gets posted, I thought it would be helpful to post a bit of a recap. So here goes... @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 The Tag Team Title Situation... Steven Seagal was really proud when he announced a big, sexy new tournament to crown RFW's first ever Tag Team Champions. There's been a tournament bout every week, with 3 quarter finals having been contested so far. The final (and biggest) is coming up at the event we had the tenacity to dub 'The Event Of The Century'. Seagal thought these contests would make the Russian Federation Of Wrestling the talk of the wrestling world. It hasn't quite worked out that way, due to the Russian fans not knowing who the hell half these teams are, and due to the mysterious Damien Black and his acolytes spookily kicking the living s*** out of all the competitors. To set things back on track, Seagal has decided to go All Out with this next tournament bout. It wasn't just hyperbole - the teams in this next match really are two of the biggest in the world. Here's how the tournament has progressed so far, winners in bold... Villain Enterprises vs Dragan Spazic & Kris Jokic The Arrows Of Russia vs Lykos Gym 2 Cool vs The Viking Raiders ??? vs ??? That Goldberg Gauntlet Thing... When Bill Goldberg came to Russia, he thought he could walk in and Jackhammer his way to glory like in the days of old. Turns out Russia had other plans. Bill Goldberg was the main man when this circus started, but lost in the inaugural World Title match to the younger, hungrier Ilja Dragunov. Pissed off and with a wounded ego, the fallen WCW legend was given a chance to smash his way back to the title. Our energy drink pedaling, kimono-wearing Authority Figure set him a gauntlet of opponents who'd test him like "the soft, lazy, feeble, Western Capitalist opponents of his past never could." The plan was to see whether the angry, bombastic old goat could evolve his style - because after 20-30 years of doing the same three moves every time, people finally figured him out. After Jackhammering half of the Eastern Hemisphere into a gooey, sticky pulp, Goldberg finally got his big title rematch. The eyes of all of Russia wanted to see whether this legendary wrestling icon had evolved. It was then that we found out that... no, he hadn't. The burly old legend turned out to be no match a second time around for Ilja Dragunov, however, who won handily on account of him knowing more than three wrestling moves, and being able to be in the ring for more than 6 minutes without needing a respirator. Dragunov pissed on the American's parade, won the bout, and even did it with a Jackhammer, just to add insult to injury. With his pride wounded, Old Bill decided to respond by sulking a lot. Things came to a head when things started going wrong in a tag match with Edge, and the jaded old megastar ended up walking away, leaving his partner to an epic ass-kicking. Will Goldberg bounce back? Will he rediscover his fire? Will he find a way to evolve to match this new generation of competitors? Can fellow legends like Roy Jones Jr help him back to his old ass-kicking ways? Or will the wrestling world just chew him up and spit him out like so many countless others? The Thing With The Russian Lads In Vests... Tamerlan Rasuev and Alen Khubulov were destined for wrestling greatness. We're talking real wrestling here, not that ridiculous soap opera crap we all love. The legitimate one. Men in vests. Muscles. Sweat. All that crap. Both were almost guaranteed Olympic glory and a lifetime of Russian lips kissing their toned, chiseled arses... until a few little problems got in the way. Like massive corruption and the biggest, most blatant state-sponsored illegal doping operation in the history of all sport... and the fact that their leader decided to demonstrate his d***-swinging masculinity by blowing up half of Ukraine. So instead of immortality and Olympic glory, they had to settle for the next best thing - the National Wrestling Championship. In a tournament that captured the imagination of the biggest nation on Earth, Khubulov won, creating a feud that both men have been trying to maim each other over ever since. Khubulov won our own National bauble. Rasuev went on a weeks-long pissy-fit, and decided to handle the situation in the most Russian way possible - by destroying anything that moved. Alen Khubolov hot his legs hurt so bad he was on crutches for weeks. Even now, on a cold day, he still walks like he's s*** himself. UFC legend Andrei 'The Pitbull' Arlovski caught a whole can of Mace with his face. He was out for weeks too, and looked like some kind of pissed off MMA racoon for what seemed like forever. Which is what brought the Belarusian cage fighter into this thing. The brave, plucky yet somehow continuously doomed Sergey Belyev somehow ended up with every bone in his body broken when he and Rasuev shared a ring. Long story short, Tamerlan was hurting people trying to get his own way. Surprisingly enough, it didn't work - Seagal fired his ass instead. This is wrestling though, and nobody is really fired for long in this crazy business. Rasuev was so busy hurting people, Seagal had to put RFW's favourite (and at the time only) tag team The Arrows Of Hungary Russia on protection duty, just in case Tamerlan tried to finish the job. Eventually, thanks to a series of (definitely not counterfeit) doctor's notes, Arlovski and Khubulov were cleared to wrestle. This whole caper (possibly) comes to a head at the upcoming 'Event Of The Century', in which Khubulov, Rasuev and Arlovski get to duke it out for the belt and (possibly) put this thing to bed once and for all. Oh, and the Croatian Kris 'The Falcon' Jokic is in that match too (presumably because the booker was drunk). The Thing With Daniel Bryan S***ting His Pants... The man who for copyright reasons would be called Bryan Daniels, came to Russia to kick some ass. It all went great - he was winning, people were cheering, everyone was getting all giddy and yelling "Yes!" all the time, all was well. Then he crossed paths with 'The Nightmare' Vladimir Kulakov, and his whole life turned to s***. His Ferrari got flipped a million times, with him inside. A Humvee he was in got smashed into a wall. The deranged Russian in a hockey mask made his life a living hell, and unlike all the foes he faced in the West, there was nothing he could do to stop it. Cue 'The American Dragon's' spectacular breakdown. The unstoppable force of old was reduced to a paranoid, quivering wreck. Apparently this was all part of a master plan, in which Authority Figure Steven Seagal claimed Daniels would be "re-forged in the fires of glorious Russian combat" and "reborn in the fires of adversity". This meant the bearded WWE legend crapping himself on Live TV for about a month. It was all very entertaining. Finally, just as the big guy in the kimono predicted, Daniels seems to have re-grown some balls. After a fight-back for the ages, the bearded Yank briefly halted 'The Nightmare's onslaught, cracking the mask and briefly showing the world the man behind the monster. Since then he's been rejuvenated, reanimated and reenergised. He still looks and dresses like he lives under a bench in a local bus shelter, but if recent showings are to be believed, the 'Yes Man' is back. At our 'Event Of The Century' he gets the chance to prove it, facing 'his demon' once and for all. Will he emerge victorious and earn a World Title rematch, or will the big crazy Russian guy eat him for breakfast and crap him all over the ring? Time will tell... The Thing With Gerald... Russia prides itself on being the most manly nation on Earth. It's whole culture is based on big strong men fighting each other and blowing s*** up. This is a country of 'real' men - big, strapping, muscular lads, shirtless, masculine - the kind who'd headbutt a Tyrannosaurus into submission. Big, burly men so tough they could stroll through the frozen Siberian wilderness without even needing a shirt on. So there was a huge, s***-eating grin on my face when I talked John Hennigan (formerly John Morrison / Johnny Nitro) into taking on a Gorgeous George kind of gimmick. Out came the long, luscious, perfumed hair. Out came the tight leather trousers. Out came flower petals and pink lasers and the most genuinely fabulous jackets in wrestling history. From the fans, out came an outpouring of hatred that was bordering on radioactive. This wasn't just heel heat - this was 1500 fans wanting to strangle the luxuriously shirted lothario. And then out came a small, Bichon Frisé / Poodle cross called Gerald. And, as they say, a star was born. I'm serious. I really can't understate how smug I am about Gerald. I really do think it's the greatest piece of booking since Bischoff unveiled the nWo. Meanwhile ex-hacker turned wrestler Alexandr 'Vertigo' Klapstov had a point to prove. After Edge got his arse kicked by half the roster in his unsuccessful World Title shot, Vertigo offered to 'watch Edge's back' in return for some mentoring. An unconvinced Rated R Superstar said he'd do it if his geeky new stooge looked good in an open challenge against anyone on the roster. Up steps Hennigan and his 'spiritual guru and soul guide' Gerald. Due to circumstances too random and ridiculous to go in to, former bodybuilder Ivan 'The Body' Markov ended up taking the match instead, and got his ass handed to him by a dog the size of a football. Vertigo got his match soon after and put his hacking skills to creative use to snatch the win. Markov got involved again, and came off second best to a tiny dog again. Edge and Vertigo are now buddies, the hacker and the pink-coated fashion enthusiast are having a rematch at our 'Event Of The Century', and somehow this all makes sense thanks to the ridiculous, twisted, surreal 'logic' of pro wrestling. The Thing With Some Villains And A Lad In A Pink Suit... The drunken, hapless booker of this ridiculous federation and high hopes when he brought in a hugely talented, charismatic and snappily-dressed Brit to be RFW's new bad guy. There were high hopes for a Villainous new chapter in the company's history. What I got instead was a toxic, tainted sex pest who'd fled all the way to Puerto Rico after becoming so scandalised he was unemployable. So after much soul-searching, it was decided there was only logical solution to this problem: f*** with Marty Scurll as much as possible. Torture the b*****d. Make him squirm and suffer for our amusement. It's been a fun little journey so far. Highlights include him and his goons getting a Hollywood beatdown from Steven Seagal, having tons and tons of stage equipment fall on him and squish him like a bug, having him left trapped under there for days, then in our most recent episode almost getting decapitated by a big, angry bear. His in-ring exploits haven't gone well either, having inexplicably lost twice to opponents who were unconscious - the latter being 'Dirty' Dragan Spazic, who won the right to join Scurll's 'Villain Enterprises' after our colour commentator broke a flagpole over his head. Chances are he'll be in action again at our 'Event Of The Century', and let's just say his prospects don't look like changing any time soon. The Ministry For Propaganda would have also forced asked post this rather patriotic reminder of the various bouts coming your way... So, now that everyone's all caught up... All that remains is for this rather glorious event to be posted. Check back soon. I mean, the whole thing's written, formatted, coded and everything. I could literally post it right now if I wanted to. But I won't. Because I'm a d***.

The least hotly anticipated comeback in this forum's history... ... is coming soon ... ... very soon ... ... like... really, really, really, really soon... Click here to see what the heck is going on!

The least hotly anticipated comeback in this forum's history... ... is coming soon ... ... very soon ... ... like... really, really, really, really soon... @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

Welcome back @Togg!!!

Hello fine people of this sexy forum! This is just a little note / shameless plug to let you know that despite being asleep for a million years now, this diary is not dead. It's levels of not-dead-ness are indeed very high. We're talking off-the-chart levels of not-dead-ness here. New stuff is being written! Bizarre new ideas are being hatched! Silly nonsense like nothing else anywhere on this forum! I'm just waiting on a new laptop to format it on. Early January is when my new device - seemingly powerful enough to command a whole fleet of nuclear submarines - shall finally arrive. And this superb, shiny new toy is what shall catapult my turd-like new stuff onto the web. Above: Slowly, but consistently, new stuff is being written for you fine, awe-inspiring people to consume. Things which WILL be coming your way soon, as they've been written already, so why the hell not post them: > The Event Of The Century > Chapter 17: Rockets > Chapter 18: Skateboards > Episode 11 > Chapter 19: The Beard > Episode 12 > Chapter 20: Dinner With Dave > Episode 13 > Chaoter 21: The Fixer > Chapter 22: Exit Strategy Wonderous things in store! Be excited!

@kanegan! Count me in!

This is a picture of me when @Togg announced this ridiculous dynasty had won Diary Of The Month for a third time. Granted, the award was shared with a bunch of other diaries. Yes, there's diaries on here that've won the award dozens of times, making my 3 wins small fry in comparison. But it means the world to me, and I thank all of you (especially those who nominated and voted) for making this happen. I was delighted that Episode 10 won the Best Event prize too. It made Sergey Belyev getting partially eaten by a bear all the more worthwhile. Thank you, amazing readers. The diary is coming back soon - once someone with necromantic powers finds a way of bringing the laptop back from the dead. I'm going 'full steam ahead' with the writing while it lays in rest. Fully written so far: > The Event Of The Century > Chapter 17: Rockets > Chapter 18: Skateboards > Episode 11 > Chapter 19: The Beard So there's plenty of life left in this one yet. Until the laptop is fixed I will keep on writing, while taking time here and there to polish my crown and my ego, while referring to myself in the third person, wearing sunglasses indoors, and laughing like an absolute lunatic. I also saw that this diary is nominated for September. Thank you to you all for that too. Everyone please vote! Please! 4 wins would mean... erm... I don't know? A secret fortress made of skulls or something.

Ok. I'm on board.

Attention Citizens! The ministry for public affairs has the unfortunate duty of informing you of a death which will sadden this great nation to its very core. It is with regret and trepidation that we must announce the death of @dstephe4's beloved, treasured laptop. We will miss the way its ridiculous Xeon processor had enough power to restart a dying sun. We will miss the way it made more noise than a 19th century steam locomotive. We will miss the way it ran hotter than one of Satan's turds, even when it wasn't really doing anything. We shall miss the way it survived for 7 impressive years, like a grizzled hardened veteran, despite being jumped up and down on - and even partially eaten - by the owner's many, many children. We shall miss the way it sang like someone'd set Axl Rose's balls on fire whenever its owner started writing ridiculous nonsense about Russian Wrestling. The laptop's work will continue. The show it helped write is 98% written and just requiring formatting. A March 2023 Mod will be installed - and heavily edited - once a replacement can be sourced. But this brave little bugger's valiant contribution shall forever be remembered. We salute this fallen comrade! A year of mourning shall be declared! Bow your heads in respect! Weep at the falling of an icon! But the work of this courageous soldier shall continue afresh. [I'll publish the damn thing with a hammer and chisel on stone tablets like Moses if I have to lol]

So what happens now? Are me, @Old School Fan, @Henderson and @Hollywood all Diary Of The Month winners? Thank you very much to those who voted! Like @619 said, it's the closest I've seen in a long time - some very good dynasties on here at the moment.

It's understandable that people forgot. It's my fault really - it's the amount of time taken to post each show. Some of these shows are longer than some peoples dynasties. I'm getting carried away. 'The Event Of The Century' - aka RussiaMania - is the second biggest show we'll do. Definitely by far the biggest so far. It coincides with a real life event Putin did. The plan is for the shows after this one to go back to the shorter, more concise format I started with... up to our biggestest massivest show, coinciding with Putin's 'Victory Day' Parade event in July. Thanks again to the awesome decicated folk who keep on reading. And for those who have voted for this in the Diary Of The Month. If this thing wins, I'm buying myself a throne made of skulls, and referring to myself as The Dark Lord Of TEW from this stage on.

I have more kids than Cruella DeVille has fur coats. I recently added another one to the brood. The downside is a lot less time to spend writing this, despite how much I enjoy writing this mildly entertaining gibberish. The diary is very much alive, but this - and the ridiculous length of the shows - means I'm posting about one show a month. Hopefully the recent Russian Reminder thingy helped freshen up a few memories that went rusty due to the big gaps between posts. So here's an extra bit of info for anyone cool enough to do Predictions for this show... The Tag Team Title Situation Steven Seagal was really proud when he announced a big, sexy new tournament to crown RFW's first ever Tag Team Champions. There's been a tournament bout every week, with 3 quarter finals having been contested so far. The final (and biggest) is coming up at this event. Seagal thought these contests would make the Russian Federation Of Wrestling the talk of the wrestling world. It hasn't quite worked out that way, due to the Russian fans not knowing who the hell half these teams are, and due to the mysterious Damien Black and his acolytes spookily kicking the living s*** out of all the competitors. To set things back on track, Seagal has decided to go All Out with this next tournament bout. It wasn't just hyperbole - the teams in this next match really are two of the biggest in the world. Here's how the tournament has progressed so far, winners in bold... Villain Enterprises vs Dragan Spazic & Kris Jokic The Arrows Of Russia vs Lykos Gym 2 Cool vs The Viking Raiders ??? vs ??? As you can see, the Arrows have already fought in the tournament. They will not be one of the teams competing in that match. If anyone wants to edit their predictions accordingly, go for it.