We’re BACK once again with BEARLY REVIEWING, bringing you a third completely uninterrupted year of the hottest and most definitive review column. Everything we say happens on Raw and Smackdown is definitely a thing that happens FOR REAL. No liars here… we bring you only the truth and sometimes also the consequences. And we do it all FOR FREE.

My best friend in the whole world ’Bear has extremely well-functioning gonads and impregnated a lady about nine months ago. So he might have to take a bit of time off over this, our THIRD YEAR of doing these every week. Except for Christmas, because nobody should have to work on Christmas.

Plus, we’ll probably do some special features over the year EXCLUSIVELY right here at Lordsofpain.net’s columns forum, where some will tell you the lepers congregate. But never mind what they tell you.

On with the show.

Oliver’s Bearly Reviewing Raw

Darling Alexa is apparently fighting Asuka tonight, a booking decision that is definitely sensible and not at all giving something away for free.

Raw opens properly with old men talking. Kurty Angels tells us all about the Rumble matches, which will be exactly the same as the other Rumble matches throughout history. Somehow they’re going to scrape together 30 women to be in that one, which should be fun until Stephanie wins it all.

It will be OK if it means we get to see LayCool and The Iconic Duo in the same ring.

The Bar point out that Child of Nepotism Jason Jordan should never have had a title match with The Turncoat Seth Rollins last week and they are quite disgruntled about it. Turns out that Seth isn’t very keen on Jangle either, so everything is going very well. Oh, they’re the tag champs now, by the way, that happened on Christmas while everyone was deep-frying turkeys.

Jason Jordan vs Cesaro

It turns out that Jason Jordan is quite good at wrestling, and just terrible at all the bits around wrestling.

I could write that every week. I probably will.

Afterwards Seth still looks uneasy about his adopted black brother.

Roman Reigns says some words. They don’t really mean anything, but he’s not keen on the racist Samoa Joe.

Bray Wyatt vs Apollo Crews

The only way Bray can now get wins is by facing people who have lost more than him. Tune in next week when he faces Curt Hawkins. After that it’s Brooklyn Brawler forever.

Woke Hardy turns up and giggles a bit, then lectures the crowd. ‘I can’t buhlieve you are watching this when there are so many Rohingya refugees suffering from the military crackdown in Myanmar’ he howls at them, holding up a picture of a malnourished child. ‘I, the physical manifestayshun of the soul of Sir Bobby Gandalf, will need to take theeeeese mattahs into my own hands it seems. Give us your fucking money!’

Alexa Bliss vs Asuka

‘*insert name of challenger* has submitted comprehensively *insert name of champion*!’ hollers Michael Cole at ringside while Corey Graves tattoos an outline of his own penis on his inner thigh.

The racist Samoa Joe is backstage and tells us he hates Samoans. When it’s pointed out that he’s Samoan he just shrugs and walks off.

Braun Strowman vs Rhyno

Wouldn’t this have been better if it was an actual Rhino? I want to see American Hero Braun Strowman body slam various safari animals.

Big Braun just keeps going after the match ends, for funsies. Poor old Heath Slater, he’s got kids.

He says he won’t team up with Kane, though, because Kane has a gammy eye and his mum doesn’t like Braun’s mum. Braun’s mum is a saint.

Finn Balor has some friends, apparently. Isn’t that nice?

Samoa Joe vs Roman Reigns

Roman doesn’t get disqualified and wins pretty handily, all told. Kind of a shame, like.

Goldust and Cedric Alexander vs Drew Gulak and Ariya Daivari

Goldust 4 Cruiserweight Champ 2018.

I hope that one time Goldust gave Ahmed Johnson the kiss of life resulted in the birth of Cedric Alexander somehow.

Elias, Bo, and Curtis vs Finn Balor, Luke Gallows, and Karl Anderson

I once took a short trip, whilst at University in Bath, North to Leicester. It was a fascinating place, full of nothing but ferrety looking men and women, almost as if they had all been bred from the same parental genes. I say it was a strange place, but that particular Saturday was, unfortunately, a day where there were sports on and as such there were also a number of travelling burly men, some pot bellied through years of beer abuse, others lithe and nimble as if they played the sport themselves, muscular arms sticking out from their rolled up t-shirt sleeves. I found the city to be rather strange and decided, in my infinite wisdom, to settle into a pub for the afternoon to get some food. As I sat there alone digging into a quinoa burger, I was accosted rather roughishly by a couple of the more well-maintained fans of the local sports teams. They called themselves Alexander and George, and they were there for the Rugby squaring up to fans of the opposition who were simply trying to enjoy a drink at the bar prior to the event kicking off. I could tell they were intoxicated, but I lacked a little in the self-confidence department so found myself joined by them at my table and a victim of their heckles. Soon I had had enough of all the jibes and excused myself to use the bathroom, but as I walked away I heard the scrape of wood on linoleum and realised that the two were following me. So it was that, rather than head to the toilet I diverted upstairs to the bedrooms that were available for hire in the pub, hoping to lock myself within one where I could no longer be hassled. Sadly I tore open the backside of my good jeans in my desperation to escape this pairing, and to add to my misfortune, just as I turned and closed the door, one of them managed to put their Reeboks between the door frame and the door itself and the combined power of the two men was too much for my slender frame so they forced their way in. I immediately reached to my pocket and offered up my wallet, but the two just laughed at me and batted the wallet out of my hand and to the floor. George spun me round and through me onto the bed, and at that instant I caught out of the corner Alexander remove his flaccid member from his jeans. Well I froze, didn’t I? And there, lying face down on the bed, I felt Alexander begin to tickle my perineum with his limp penis. No sooner had I begun to try and get back to my feet than George sat on my back, his weight holding me down. I lifted my head just as Alexander, now erect, slipped into my anus and, as he thrashed away in my backside, a small novelty Barack Obama bobblehead on the nightstand nodded as if in agreement with his actions. As I stared closely at this bobblehead, wishing for it to shake its head rather than nod and disagree with this rampant shagging of my arsehole, I saw slightly below it the draw of the stand start to open. It began with a miniscule, almost imperceptible, wiggle of the draw and then I saw a long skeletal finger reach out and slowly pry the draw out of its hole and into the room, and as I watched this grew to a full hand and then a cloaked head lifted out of the body of the draw itself, leaving me staring, to my shock, right into the face of Death Himself. He took in the scene before him, of George sat on my back and urging Alexander on, and then looked down at my pained and slightly panicked face. And just there, in that moment, he looked at me with where his eyes presumably dwelled deep in his hooded skull and muttered under his breath, as if relaying an aside to an office ally, ‘Rugby players. Motherfucking gay boys!’ And then he slid back into the drawer from whence he had appeared, somehow closing it from within and shutting himself away from the scene of my buggering. Alexander was compelled to finish by George, but rather than ejaculate within me he bathed George’s rugby top in his love juice, and then they both left in tandem, leaving me to pick up my wallet. I later purchased a replacement pair of jeans which I have to this day, and yet wearing them is hard as it always reminds me of this day.

That’s all to say that this Borin’ Snorin’ Tourin’ Floorin’ Implorin’ Apple Corin’ Deplorin’ Motorin’ Ignorin’ Soarin’ Roarin’ Scorin’ Gorin’ Clawin’ Finn Balor match is less interesting than that story.

Paul Heyman has a direct line to Satan and he’s told him that Brock Lesnar is actually his favourite, not Kane. This makes Kane quite unhappy, so they do a fight until people stop them from fighting.

Rating – I still can’t believe Kane is going to main event a pay per view. Kane!