Englishmen
of a certain age – mine – remember the nature of Saturday afternoon television
three to four decades ago. Prior to 1982, there were just three channels, two
of which showed nothing but sport during the prime weekend slot. Perhaps the
word ‘sport’ is stretching the word’s definition, particularly between four and
five o’clock on the sole ITV option. This hour, before the day’s football
results were broadcast, was devoted to ‘professional wrestling’ – men of
bizarre shapes and sizes, wearing either speedos or leotards, clunking heads,
contorting limbs and generally knocking eight bells out of one another, lapped
up by a baying audience. Everyone was knee-jerk partisan; there were great
guys, rotten guys and no one really in between. Week after week, I loved it.
Discovering
that the whole show was staged was a let-down on a par with learning the truth
about Father Christmas. I had never realized that it was simply a pantomime: Laurel and Hardy with intent. (If you
smile at the names Johnny Saint, Les Kellett, Kendo Nagasaki, Big Daddy and
Giant Haystacks, then you were there.)
Since
then, wrestling has ‘evolved’. Now, one of my own sons is as transfixed as I
was by the antics of wrestlers, most of today’s being North American. When
cajoled to buy tickets (Figure 89.1) for a WWE (World Wrestling Entertainment)
event, therefore, I could hardly refuse.
Figure
89.1: WWE Live in Liverpool
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© 2015 Echo Arena
Liverpool’s
Echo Arena was sold out (Figure 89.2).
There were many lads-with-dads, and not an insignificant number of the fairer
sex, a good proportion of whom were probably well into their sixties. Proceedings
were initiated by a flashy American girl in a sparkly dress, who gave the
national anthem as thorough a pummelling as any of the wrestlers would dish out
in the ring.
Figure
89.2: Act 1, Scene 1
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© 2015 Paul Spradbery
The
stage was set (Figure 89.3). To the sound of blaring techno-music, two pop-eyed
meatheads made their way as menacingly as possible to the ring. Each was as
wide as he was tall – an upside-down triangle with a head on top – and the
(two-way) punishment began without delay. What amazed me as much as anything
was the loudness of the bang when their bodies slammed onto the canvas (Figure
89.4) That said, perhaps there were microphones underneath. Staged and scripted
the bouts might be, but no one could doubt that these showmen know how to take
a good old-fashioned hammering.
Figure
89.3: No photography allowed – apparently.
Copyright
© 2015 Paul Spradbery
Figure
89.4: A count of three
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© 2015 Paul Spradbery
Next
on stage was a trio of bearded rednecks who looked like extras from Deliverance. They set about their
opponents without even waiting for the bell to sound. While two went at each
other in the ring, another pair went to work outside it. I felt
sorry for the poor referee, whose absurd task was to govern the chaos without
hindering it (Figures 89.5 & 89.6).
Figure
89.5: Anywhere else, this would be both illegal and physically impossible.
Copyright
© 2015 Paul Spradbery
Figure
89.6: Playing to the audience. Plus ça change ...
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© 2015 Paul Spradbery
Most
of the contestants seemed to have long hair, long beards or both. All the more
to grab, I thought. After the rednecks came a trio of scary-but-sexy women,
followed by some amazing gymnastics courtesy of a hyperactive guy called Kalisto,
and a giant toddler who beat his opponent with a stick, then a chair, before
the coup de grâce: spearing him, head first, through a wooden table. No wonder Punch and Judy shows have gone out of
business.
The
show ended at 8 p.m. ‘Mini-me’ had traded every blow and shouted himself
hoarse (Figure 89.7).
Serves
him right for passing the ‘11+’.
Well
done, son xx
Figure
89.7: Easily the scariest duo in the arena
Copyright
© 2015 Paul Spradbery
Copyright
© 2015 Paul Spradbery
