What exactly is Clash of Champions?
A glittering albeit grammatically unwieldy night of prestige, in which WWE's vast array of gold hoarders demonstrate precisely why they're the cream of the crop in a series of championship-standard contests, made all the more meaningful by everything being on the line?
In conception, it's precisely that. In execution, judging by the glut of rematches and obvious dead rubbers, the show is instead a complete inconvenience, an overstuffed parade of nobles whose apparent izzat is entirely ersatz.
Like many of WWE's gimmick pay-per-views, Clash of Champions is a self-defeating idea. What in theory works as a one-off special diminishes not just itself but its participants with repetition. As the theme stipulates that all titles must be defended, we know implicitly, because of the fact a year's worth of TV has not been building towards an autumn B-show, that the majority of matches are makeweights. This in turn dilutes the prestige of the titles on offer; if anybody can get a shot just to fill space on a card, what exactly are the belts worth? The less the belts mean, the less this show means.
But like the in-laws, it's f*cking here to spoil another perfectly good Sunday.