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10,9,8,7..3,2,1! The music starts, the pyros go off and the crowd goes fucking mental. It's Kane, it's Kane, how is Kane here? Even the remaining participants stop smacking each other and turn to see what's going on. The Big Red Machine is the final entrant in the 2026 Royal Rumble. He slowly makes his way to the ring, old school mask, adjusting his gloves as always. The Undertaker is in the crowd and stands up in shock, jumps the barrier and moves to confront his brother. Th

I had suspected for a while that I was suffering from erectile dysfunction.

A streamer's triumphant comeback broadcast takes a turn into the past, where old grudges get settled.

A Direct Energy ad played seven times in a row in Houston and I started pricing up petrol. A World Cup trip rant, with one sunburnt testicle.

At 3:17 every morning, the washing machine starts singing. Yesterday, it changed the lyrics. Up until then I'd made my peace with it. It's a Beko, it cost £199 from Currys, and it does a passable Careless Whisper in a voice like Barry White gargling a fridge. Every night, 3:17 on the dot. No wash, no spin, just the singing and the drum going round for rhythm. I haven't put a load in since March. Nobody's ever accused me of having a plan. I'd like to say I investigated. I didn

Even if you knew the plan existed, and you never could, none of the info ever went near a computer. It therefore could not be stolen, without data there could be no data breach.