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Guest Columnist 

The Dungeon
by The Anvil's Swagbag

When somebody finds out that you are a wrestling fan, there are three popular responses.

The first, of course, is the one that we have all heard; the standard response. It is, of course, ‘well, I don’t like Wrestling because it is all fake.’ This is very true, it is ‘fake’. But so are Mickey James’ norks, and by God, I still like them. I like them a lot.

The second is the also ever-popular, ‘Oh, I like Wrestling.’ I LOVE Stones Gold Steve! And that other guy… The People’s Pebble, or something.’. Which begs the question, why are we, the UP-TO-DATE wrestling fans, the one’s who are stereotypically lonely and without a girlfriend? If this retard has a girlfriend, it’s a sympathy fuck. At best. And the only reason he isn’t lonely is because the voices in his head keep him occupied. I say, lets stop cutting down the trees now. We need oxygen. Let’s instead cut down on the carbon dioxide produced, and kill all the twats who are under the impression that The People’s Elbow is a FEROCIOUS FINISHER.

But it is this third group of people that I am intrigued by. The group of fans that have watched ‘Goldust since he started out’. The group of fans who remember Wrestling when a back body drop or a vertical suplex could end a match, and a piledriver was considered a despicable crime. A group of people who have watched Wrestling through the ages, watched it EVOLVE, watched it become the one-man-industry it is today. A group of people who wish Wrestling was still how it used to be, ‘Back In The Day’. And this is the group of people that my Gran belongs to.

Welcome to the latest, EPIC edition of THE DUNGEON, where nobody can hear you scream. And that’s why this is where I bring your momma.

I’ll start by explaining my Gran. She is 70. She is in a wheelchair, disabled from the waste down. She calls everybody, ‘duck’. She has to wear nappies because she has no control of her bladder, which for some strange reason reminds me of the Big Show’s shaven crack. Which, for not such a strange reason, has done strange things to my stomach…I’ll be back in a second…

 

… There is always a fucking carrot in there. I DON’T EAT CARROTS.

Anyway… She is the sort of Gran who will continually offer you food until you either eat something, or cry. She likes to cover her furniture with plastic. (Probably incase she forgets to put a nappy on one morning or something...)

And she loves Wrestling.

Welcome to the world of the MARK. Not just any Mark though. The Mark that has been told that Wrestling is fake, and kinda accepts the fact that it is fake… but still believes that Dominick’s father died in a hotel room. The kind that can’t understand why Rey spends all his time praising the man who fucked his wife. And we all know Rey must have really loved Eddy, because he finishes all of his matches staring up at the heavens.

It’s just a pity there’s always a guy laying on him when he does.

Welcome to the world of the elderly wrestling fan.Welcome to the world of the New Age Old Fart Keyfabe Collection.

I am going to try and heal the Wrestling World with a little bit of help from the elderly. I would like you, from this point on, to view me as a Michael Moore type figure, only without the baseball cap and future diabetes, as I am going to try and discover why the WWE has gone to pot in recent years (insert your own RVD joke here). And I am going to do it in a short docu-diary that I am going to call ‘Back In My Day’. Join me on my epic adventure.

ALL OF WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ IS TRUE. (Except for the bits where I outright lie.)

19th May 2006.

My leads, and the fact that I don’t know any fucking old people that watch Wrestling except for my Nan, have led me to my Nan’s house. As I arrive at the door, and press the doorbell, a strange feeling kicks in. A feeling of pride. I am doing something good for the business that I love. I am healing the Wrestling business, and I get to rip the shit out of old-people in the mean-time. This is the life. Then my Nan opens her door, and the rank smell of piss greets me, and I realise that this will probably be a thankless task, and that the old people jokes will write themselves. I enter the house, and she tells me to take a seat. I begin my interview.

Me:- So, Nan…

Nan:-Do you want a biscuit, duck?

Me:- …no, thank you. Right…

Nan:- Are you sure, duck? They’re fresh.

Me:- Yes, I’m fine. Honestly. I had a big lunch. So…

Nan:- But you look so thin, duck. Have a biscuit.

Me:- I really…

Nan:- Take one…

It is at this point that I make three decisions. One, that I would only detail the wrestling shit from now on. Two, to take a fucking biscuit. And three, that if there was ever a bomb under my Nan’s chair, I wouldn’t pass her the crutches.

 

The talk slowly gets round to Wrestling, and what is wrong with today’s product,

Nan:- Well, there are too many foreigners, aren’t there!

Me:- What do you mean?

Nan:- Well, who’s that one with the face paint? Umpapa, or something…

Me:- Umaga.

Nan:- That’s him, Oompaloompa. They come over here, with their Weapons of Mass Destruction…

Me:- Well, Nan, two points. One, we are English. And two, Umaga is Samoan.

Nan:- Well, they go over there, with their weapons, and they…

Me:- Look, Nan, I have to stop you there. Umaga is not in Al Quaida. What the HELL gave you that idea?

Nan:- …he kills Americans with his thumb. And he comes to the ring with that Been Larden.

Me:- He doesn’t KILL them, Nan. Dear LORD.

Nan:- Well, you know those young men he fights?

Me:-… yes.

Nan:- Well, have you seen any of them since?

Me:-… Good point.

Nan:- I’m telling you. With a thumb like that, he has to be Ali Kaida.

 

It’s at this point she seems to go into a trance, and if I thought she was full of shit before, that is nothing compared to her colostomy bag a few minutes later. Have you ever been tempted to squeeze something, knowing that it would be a horrible thing to do?… moving swiftly on…

Me:- So, Nan, what has changed between now and then? I mean, there have always been foreigners in Wrestling. I mean, what about the Superfly?

Nan:- He wasn’t foreign!

Me:- He never wore shoes!

Nan:- Good point. Well back in my day, good, old fashioned Scots, like Rowdy Pipes would show those pesky foreigners where they belonged.

Me:- By hitting them over the head with a coconut.

Nan:- Right.

Me:- You senile old…

Nan:- I think he did him a favour anyway. Those coconuts they eat are so hard to break.

Me:- Right.

Nan:- They should eat sensible meals. Living off berries.

Me.- Look, I’m gonna leave this interview here, because half of this will barely make it onto The Wrestling Fan, and by god, I made a joke about Mother Teresa giving head the other day. So let’s clarify. You think there are too many foreigners like Muhammed Hassan’s in wrestling today, so you would rather go back to the days of, say, The Iron Shiek.

(Silence)

Nan:- I never liked Brainy B. Blair anyway.

 

I had to face facts. My grandmother had been about as helpful as a woman with a map, and about as unstoppable as Hogan’s WCW push. Damn you, creative control clause! I needed more old farts, and fast. Really fast. Like, tomorrow, fast.

 

20th May 2006

I slept.

Hey, fuck you, I was tired.

 

 

21st May 2006

I wake up with the most dreadful feeling, so I declare that I will never sleep with Lita again, and apply some ointment. Nobody told me that genital warts burned so bad.

I also have another dreadful feeling. A feeling of impending doom. I run to my computer, knowing that something is bad. Something is REALLY bad. And as I open up the TWF forum, I read the words that shock me to the very core of my being. The words that put the fire of the god’s under my ass.

‘WWE CREATIVE ARE CONSIDERING GIVING MARK HENRY A TITLE RUN’.

My first thought is, ‘the SAME Mark Henry who had sex with an old age pensioner? The SAME Mark Henry who’s sperm produces little hand-babies?’ My second thought is that I need to get on with my mission, and quick.

I chose to accept my mission. I chose to pinpoint the moment Wrestling stopped being how it was ’back in their day’. And fuck, I am failing miserably. If I am going to readjust the Wrestling world, and return it to it’s former glory, I have to get a move on, before the belt I hold so dear can’t fit around the waist of Mark fucking Henry.

I need to find a large vast collection of pensioners, in the hope that ONE of them is an old school wrestling fan. My search could only lead me to one place. A home for the elderly.

As I enter the home, I hear something from behind a closed door. It somehow seems significant….

Voice One:- Oh Dawn!

Voice Two:- MMMM Ohhhhhh EDWARD!

One:- Ohhhhhhh DAWN!

Two:- Ohhhhhhhh EDWARD!!!!!

One:- Ohhhhhhhhh DA…….. Eeeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuuuuggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

(The sound of somebody struggling to breath, which stops very suddenly. Silence.)

Two:-… Edward?…………………Edward??…………..Oh FUCK, not again!

 

Hmmmm. Moving on.

 

I get the lift up to the second floor, and walk into the foyer. I see an astonishingly good Ric Flair lookalike, who shouts, ‘WHOOOO’ at me, and an astonishingly good Mae Young lookalike, who removes her top, further proving my theory that there is always a carrot in there. When I return from the lavatory, after wiping the remains of my dinner off my shoes, I notice two old men sat in the corner. And I just KNOW one of them was a wrestling fan. Call it intuition, call it like knowing like, or call it noticing that one of them is wearing a Triple H t-shirt. Either way.

I approach the two old men, tape recorder in hand, preparing to break the boundaries, and find where, along that line, Wrestling went wrong. (Or I don’t, and this crap never happened. Again, either way) This is when I realise that the one wearing the wrestling T Shirt is deaf, and the other has full fledged amnesia. I realise this for the following reasons…

-When I ask the first what he thinks about TNA, he says he would love some, but he cant get it up anymore without three Viagra’s and a copy of Hustler.

-When I ask the second if he thinks the Hulk Hogan vs. Andre The Giant match changed Wrestling, he asks me what I said my name was again. When I ask if he enjoys the Raw Diva Search, he asks me what I said my name was again. When I ask him if he even WATCHES Wrestling anymore, he asks me what my first question was again. And tells me that he didn’t catch my name.

I am about to give up and leave, when a hand taps me on the shoulder. I turn around, and am greeted by the single most orange man I have ever met. And I have met the Tango guy.

I say, ‘Hi Hulk’.

Here is the exact transcript of the conversation that we had. Well, I say conversation… it is more a monologue.

Hogan:- ‘You know, brother, I heard your conversation brother, and I’ll tell you what’s wrong with the Dub, jack. There aint enough Hulkamania, brother! Dude, if Hulkamania was running wild, brother, like in the old days, brother, brother, even your brother’s brother would blubber like a mother, brother, like no other, brother. You wanna make the wrestling business as good as it once was, dude? You need to start with Vinnie Mac, jack. Go to Titan Towers, undercover, brother. Quiz the big man. Ask him why wrestling’s gone down the crapper like my run with Ultimate Warrior in WCW, Jack… And persuade him that one more Hulkster run would be good for business, brother. I’m the Suburban Commando, brother!

Me:- Hey, cheers Hulk. If there is anything I can do…

Hulk:- Well… do you like shooting guns?

Me:- I’m a pretty good marksman.

Hulk:- Do you know where my daughters boyfriend lives?

Me:- (backing away slowly) I can’t say I do.

Hulk:- Oh… how about Randy Savage?

Me:- …….Bye, Hogan.

And as I walk away from Hulk, in his dressing gown, with his pills in a little plastic container, I feel bad for a split second that I had removed the brakes from his wheelchair whilst he was ranting. That soon passes.

I get in my car, and know that I only have one choice left. If I am going to take Wrestling back to the golden age, I am going to have to start at the top, the Boss himself. Vincent Kennedy McMahon. And as I reverse out of my space, I hear a window breaking from the second floor, and a voice that sounds quite a lot like Bret Hart’s shouting something like, ‘That’s for making me job to Yokozuna’.

And as I drive away, I feel quite happy. In that my mission is drawing to an end. And in that Hogan finally got his last big push.

Yes, I just wanted to make that joke

Screw you.

22nd May 2006.

I wake up, and I realise something. I don’t know what I am striving for. I know that I want to make Wrestling as good as it once was, as good as my Gran remembers it being. But what WAS that? I am clueless. And why? Because nobody who I spoke to KNEW what they wanted Wrestling to go back to! Nobody could capture the essence!

We, as Wrestling Fans, despite common belief, don’t have to sit back and accept the product put in front of us. We don’t HAVE to accept a Mark Henry push, or a Great Khali clean victory over Taker. This is what is known, in and out of the profession, as BULLSHIT. But we have to accept that the Era that went before us, whether we are referring to the Golden age that began at Wrestlemania One, or the revival that was the Attitude era, has passed. It has gone.

And for the first time, I think about the mission that I have been on, and realise that I am persuing a dream that wouldn’t be so enjoyable if I had it. Like screwing Jessica Alba, and finding out that she has a very wide-set vagina. Hey, if you can drop a penny down there and it doesn’t touch the sides, my LORD don’t put anything that you have become attached to in there!

My Gran was wrong. We don’t need Wrestling to become what it was back in the day when she had to walk fifteen miles barefoot in the snow to school only to get sent home for wearing toe-nail polish and have to walk the eighteen miles back. (Yeah, I tried to do the maths too. Either she’s a lying old hag, or she lived in a campervan)

And THIS is where Vince is going wrong. This ISN’T the Attitude era anymore, BAH GAWD. John Cena will never be The Rock, or Stone Cold, no matter how much he appeals to ‘the Streets’.

We don’t need Wrestling to go back. We need this shit to move FORWARDS. We need a NEW ERA OF WRESTLING!!!!1!!

And thus, my meeting with Vinnie Mac took on a whole new agenda. Finally, I face the Guardian. The Big Boss. Finally, I am at the end of my mission…

I stroll into Titan Towers, where I have magically appeared from England, because I can think of no logical way of getting there on time. Fuck you.

A woman at the desk should stop me from walking on… but she doesn’t. Because she is having sex. And by God, the woman isn’t Lita. Then Sable walks past me, in a corset, looking… looking… HOT! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE! And it is only when she says, ‘we never use sex to enhance our program’, that I realise that I have stepped into A VORTEX IN TIME. THIS REALLY IS STILL THE ATTITUDE ERA!

I walk on, past Stone Cold hitting a Suit with a chair. Past Mick Foley telling a camera that the WWF (!) is trying to make the world a better place for Mankind. I don’t know where to look, because everything scares me here. Sunny is THIN! The product is FUNNY! SABLE LOOKS GOOD!!!

I stroll on. Head down. And I finally get to McMahon’s room. I know he is here. I can sense it. There is some kind of magnetic field around this door I just can’t control. A sign on the door says, ‘Board Room - The Corporate Ministry’.

(Right, I’m warning you now. Things are about to get even more obscure. If you are still reading after I told you that Sable looked hot and Sunny was thin, my God you must have some faith. But if it is at all humanly possible… things are about to get worse. I am just going to tell you exactly how it went down. )

I open the door, and the blast of air on my face is so extreme that for a second I can’t see. When my eyes finally adjust, I see a table.

But not just a table, because that would be shit.

There are no chairs around this table… instead, there are many people, on their knees. They are wearing big cloaks with hoods, but I occasionally catch a glimpse of a face. Johnny Ace. Steve Lombardi. Jim Ross.

And they are chanting something. Over and over again. ‘Higher Power… Higher Power…’.

And so I look up. And hovering above them all, levitating on thin air, is a man in a cloak. I cannot see his face, shrouded in the darkness the hood brings. And they all begin to bow down to him. The G Force of the power exiting this room is making my cheeks quiver. I am beginning to look how Jerry Lawler would look without the operations.

The men begin to grovel and bow at this… this… higher powers feet, and I realise that not one of them would dare tell him that he looks ridiculous in this cloak, and it would never, for example, increase buy rates.

And then He raises His hands to the hood… and slowly draws it back. And there is Mr. McMahon. With the biggest shit eating grin I have seen since the LAST time he did this storyline. God love repetition.

He says; ‘It was ME! IT WAS ME ALL ALONG! McMAHONISM LIVES’.

And that is when it happens. That is when I realise what I must do to kick-start the revolution; the new Era of Wrestling. I shout something, loudly. I repeat it. And again…

‘BORING’.

McMahon looks down at me with a grimace. The Adams apple bobs. The disciples look around.

‘BORING. BORING. BORING’.

Then… amazingly… somebody that sounds a lot like Tommy Dreamer joins me…

‘BORING… BORING’.

… more and more of the disciples are joining the act. Jim Ross’ distinctive tone can be heard, ‘BORING BAH GAWD’.

Soon, every single agent, roadie, and plain ass-kisser in the room is bellowing along.

‘BORING. BORING’

McMahon is flabbergasted. He says, ‘I assure you, this is not boring’, but it is too late. The biggest angle in the history of Time, McMahon’s complete control of the wrestling industry, his RELIGION, is crumbling at his feet. And there is nothing he can do.

There is a almighty flash, and everything goes dark.

 

23rd May 2006.

I wake up in my own bed, unsure of how I got here, but happy nonetheless. I did something amazing yesterday. I broke McMahon’s spirit when I showed him the truth, the truth that everybody was too scared to put their balls on the line to show him. That this ISN’T the Attitude era anymore. That not every idea he has is going to work. And that Sable used to be attractive once.

And maybe, just maybe, I lit a fire under the road agents, and they wont just agree with McMahon anymore. Maybe they will fight for the business they love. We haven’t gone backwards as I had hoped when we started out. But hopefully now, the Wrestling world could finally move forwards…

Well, a week has passed, and sadly nothing has changed. The WWE is still the same, other than the fact that ECW are branching out. But I discovered some things about the state of Wrestling today in my epic journey.

1) This isn’t the eighties or the late nineties anymore. Hence the slump. WE NEED TO MOVE ON.

2) Just because WWE is the largest promotion at the moment, does not mean that McMahon’s word is gospel. If only the people in the back would tell him when he is concocting a shit pie, instead of being scared of losing their jobs… well, Wrestling might actually still be fun to watch.

3) Old people are stupid. Hey, maybe it isn’t a Wrestling fact, but I learnt it.

But maybe I did do some good. Hell, maybe I did change the entire industry for the better. Fuck, maybe I saved the lives of many. Because, as of yet, Mark Henry hasn’t had that fucking title reign. Anvils Swagbag, signing off.

 
 
Pictures and logos created by Sean Carless.

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TWF FLASHBACK

November 2006

SATIRE: DISCONTINUED WWE XMAS PRODUCTS!

by Sean Carless

With Christmas just around the corner, what better way to spend your few remaining dollars (left over after the seemingly infinite line-up of fucking pay-per-views ) then on the following "quality WWE merchandise!" After all, if they don't move this stuff, and fast, stockholders just might get time to figure out what "plummeting domestic buyrates" means!... and well, I don't think they need to tell you what that means! (Seriously. They're not telling you. Everything is fine! Ahem.).