I implore you to excuse my abominable scrawl, but I write with some lamentable news. I was gravely distracted from my schedule on this most crisp of December days and found myself viewing a popular play named Cranford on a newfangled televisual contraption named Sky+. As the result of this dramatic departure from my daily chores, I appear to be thinking and indeed writing like an English Victorian lady. I even seem to be forgetting life in the 21st Century. This is most perturbing, as I am aware that I am obliged to relay the happenings of a grappling event known as Smackdown to you in a lively fashion. However, I am a lady of moderate eduction and am prepared to set my shoulder to the wheel of this task.
I am told that this programme of events takes place in the Americas, and this was indeed evident from the beginning. where a dark-skinned gentleman and a most disagreeable woman of Central American descent cooked an exotic Christmas feast. How they planned on cooking such large amounts of poultry without so much as a log on the fire, I have no idea. They also drank a strange custard-like substance fashioned from eggs and fortified wine. This was followed by the demolishing of a roasted bird by a small and incoherent man-child. The colonies are very vexing indeed.
The first happening of the night was excitable, to say the very least. Four gentlemen in limited clothing enthusiastically proceeded to enter the roped fighting ring. One extremely dark-skinned gentleman shouted rhyming couplets in a language I did not comprehend. The gathering of people in the building behaved in a most raucous manner in response to this unusual music. The purveyor of this tune was named R-Truth and was followed by one Mr. John Morrison of California, Mr. Matthew Hardy of North Carolina and an Irish gentleman known only by Finlay. Their opponents were a terrifying brood; a long-haired Scottish fellow named Mr. McIntyre, a man who shone like the sun and was possibly of German ancestry – Dolph Ziggler, a very tall gentleman named Luke Gallows, and a short, bearded but unnervingly handsome man known as CM Punk. My first reaction to these eight men was to avert my eyes to save my blushes and wait for them to attend to their linens. But as they seemed intent on remaining bare-chested for the entire brawl, I had no choice but to watch.
Indeed, while this display of male flesh was both uncouth and savage, their close body grappling was extremely pleasing to my innocent female eyes. Following what appeared to be a fervent battle, the golden one (Mr. Morrison) contorted his body, held his German opponent in place for a count of three and celebrated the victory by embracing his team-mates ardently.
After the uncivilised display of skin witnessed during the previous segment, the arrival of an especially well dressed gentleman named Mr. Jericho was of great relief. Although, I found my mind unfathomably occupied by thoughts of Mr. Punk. This Canadian fellow, Christopher Jericho, believed he had been the victim of great injustice and berated the audience for their apparent lack of respect. He made an excellent case and I am inclined to favour the judgement of any man in well woven twill. But a group of ruffians in revealing pink and black attire begged to differ. The only lady of the trio, who went by the collective moniker of The Hart Dynasty, exposed her bosoms and midriff in a fashion not acceptable in polite society. Although, she had made an effort to cover her ankles.
I am told this group of young fighters are a great prospect for the future and come from a family of much admired nobility…..
Please excuse me while I take leave of your company for a brief moment. My corset is tight and I must adjust the whale-bones within the stitching to assist my breathing. My chest area is compressed beyond recognition…………………………………………………………………. There. That’s far more comfortable. I’m sorry I was away for so long, but I had not anticipated how long it would take to manoeuvre around the room with this enormous hoop and bustle in my skirt. I also took the opportunity to place a more festive ribbon on my bonnet and turn the swan roasting on the spit.
The exchange between Mr. Jericho and his Canadian compatriots was rudely interrupted by two jesters known only as DX. They made supposedly humorous comments about flatulence and the ineptitude of Canada. I did not understand this most crude form of colonial joviality.
This comedic interlude was followed by an unpleasant attack on Mr. Jericho.
After this rather disturbing and unexpected turn of events, I felt an attack of the vapours coming on and felt it was best to leave the fighting area for a brief moment to get some air. In an area behind the stage I was witness to a verbal assault on a striking young lady named Mickie James. Two frightful ladies seemed to befriend the woman; one was impossibly tall, slender and with wheat-coloured hair. The other was shorter and raven-haired, and spoke in a tongue somewhat similar to my own. Their offer of compassion at this festive time of year was most agreeable. But it was beguiling and they soon withdrew their hands of friendship in favour of insults on Ms. James’ allegedly ample figure. Ms. James was clearly shaken by this double attack and retreated to her dressing chamber.
Not only was I incredibly annoyed by such brutish behaviour from reportedly respectable ladies, but I was also bewildered by the incessant chuckling coming from one of the male commentators, who found the churlish event to be very amusing. Although, once I was introduced to said ‘amused gentleman’, I found myself rather inclined to forgive his misplaced laughter. Mr. Striker was a charming and a desperately attractive man of many words, and his fondness for seasonal knitwear left me slightly overcome. I wondered if he might allow to me to keep a lock of his hair, as is Victorian tradition. It is probably an act of great folly to associate myself with a gentleman of such notorious social reputation. My father would surely prefer I cultivate an attachment to his companion, Mr. Grisham, a plain but sensible man. But I had been seduced by Mr. Striker’s eloquent use of the English language, which is such a rare occurrence in the Americas.
My brief but intoxicating moments with Mr. Striker had left me a little giddy. I lost my way and found myself in the male dressing chamber. I should have turned on my heels and left the room as quickly as I had entered it. I should at least have averted my gaze. I did neither. Thankfully, the only two men in there were a small man with a Spanish name I cannot remember who wore a tight, tribal mask on his face. Another diminutive man, Mr. Joshua Matthews, appeared to be questioning the masked man. I did not comprehend most of what was said, but it seemed to be some form of declaration of war against the local funeral director.
The small masked man proceeded to the roped fighting ring, much to the merriment of the increasingly jolly audience. He was then followed by the gentleman I had mistakenly called ‘the funeral director’. I was perplexed. This large, menacing chap was known to all as The Undertaker. But he was also known as ‘The Dead Man’. How could he possibly be both dead and the gentleman assigned to prepare the dead for burial? It occurred to me that I may be applying too much academic thought and held steadfast to my bonnet for fear he may desire to argue the details of his title with me.
The difference in stature between these two men suggested that the grapple would be completed almost as swiftly as it had begun. I was indeed pleasantly surprised to find that the smaller man, who I was later informed is named Rey Mysterio, defended himself admirably. The winner of this match would be awarded with a much coveted golden trophy to be worn around the waist. It appeared that the dead one was to retain his waist-trophy when an imperious beast named Batista entered the ring and joined the fight uninvited. This animalistic creature was almost naked and I could no longer watch for fear of being exposed to rather more than any unmarried lady should.
I was beginning to believe that keeping such unruly company was a mistake for a demure and elegant lady such as myself. I was forced to leave for a moment of respite. On completing some needlepoint, I found that I was preoccupied with the excitement of the crowd and, against my mother’s wishes, I decided to return to the show. On returning I was informed that an unknown duo made up of Bryce Andrews and Pat Buck were defeated by some ragamuffin thieves from New York called Cryme Tyme. No, dear readers, the ink of my writing implement has not faltered. That is indeed how these two gentlemen spell their name. I suggested that I should travel by ship to the colonies to offer them my services as a teacher of English language. They declined and I accepted their refusal graciously. I did not wish to find myself punished for my aloof offer with a pie in my face, as seems to be the custom on this Smackdown programme.
The sight of four ladies brawling with each other is most unsavoury. I have always been told that undignified behaviour in the company of gentlemen would surely deprive even the most accomplished and beautiful of women a husband. Yet, having witnessed Ms. McCool and Layla’s unnecessary attack on Ms. James earlier in the evening, I was quite looking forward to being present for her revenge. Ms. James was joined by her closest of friends, Maria, and both were pitted against my compatriot, Layla, and a monster of a woman known as Beth Phoenix. Ms. McCool was quite overcome with the night’s events and elected not to take part in the duel.
While Mickie James was successful in defeating her dastardly opponents, her anger compelled her to attack Michelle McCool. What she had not anticipated was that Ms. Phoenix would run to Ms McCool’s aid, leaving Ms. James terribly injured.
The evening came to close with one final match; the aforementioned Hart Dynasty were to engage in some fisitcuffs with DX. I had not noticed it when the two clowns had appeared earlier in the show, but now that Mr. HHH was almost entirely nude, I recalled a brief encounter he and I had experienced some months earlier. Being a lady of good standing in the community, I had best not disclose the nature of that encounter, but I can say with some confidence that this was not the first time I had seen Mr. HHH quite so exposed.
Ok, ok….I did well to keep this going and it probably didn’t work, but I tried something different and you can’t knock me for that. I hate DX being on Smackdown. You know I love Triple H loads but uuuuuurgh! Hornswoggle on SD too. NO! The match itself was pretty decent, but it just doesn’t sit right.
If this whole post has been torture for you, sorry. I was possessed by the spirits of my Great Great Great Grandmothers after watching three hours of Cranford in a row. Luckily for the people who hated it, my next post will be a new instalment of Crotch Watch; which could not be less ladylike if it tried.