Martin Kelner wrestling
There is a wrestler called Mike Awesome – which I suspect may not be his baptismal name – who has been labelled “That Seventies Guy” by the commentators because his hip-hugging jeans and floral shirts, they say, make him look like a throwback to that era.
Well, excuse me, but did you ever see an American professional wrestler who didn’t look like a relic of the decade style forgot? Apart from wrestlers and Aerosmith, is there anyone who still wears their hair like that? Is there a single one of them who could not step straight from the ring into Spinal Tap without make-up or wardrobe?
“The guy’s a walking fire hazard. There’s more polyester there than in Barry Manilow’s wardrobe,” screamed one of the commentators on WCW Worldwide, as Awesome entered the arena carrying the tools of his trade. Unlike most wrestlers, Awesome is not content merely to pick up the folding chairs and smash them over his opponent’s head.
He carries his own trestle table around with him – “That Seventies Table” it was dubbed, although it didn’t look particularly G-Plan -which he sets up in the ring as though preparing to do some wallpapering. But neither paper nor paste sullies Awesome’s furniture, which is saved for the coup de grce, when he breaks it in two by slamming his adversary down on to it.
If you are unfamiliar with the subtleties of Mr Awesome’s modus operandi, it may be because you are not from the United States, where the battle between Ted Turner’s World Championship Wrestling (WCW) and Fox’s World Wrestling Federation (WWF) is fought as ferociously as any in the ring, with the crucial difference that the contest between Turner and Mad Dog Murdoch is for real.
That Seventies Guy, alongside Corporal Cajun and Lieutenant Loco (who appears to have a mental health problem, political correctness not being professional wrestling’s strong suit), is seen by the WCW as an important weapon in the war between the two moguls, which, to my untutored eye, appears to be going very much the way of the WWF.
The WWF tends to be stronger on narrative than the WCW. In fact, whole quarter-hours go by without anyone having their eyes gouged or windpipe danced upon. We see arguments backstage, and wrestlers left alone in the ring to deliver long monologues impugning fellow members of the circus, who for the purpose of the show are treated as deadly rivals.
A current storyline has The Rock, unsmiling and fabulously truculent, accused by Rikishi, an obese giant man, of plotting to run over the champion, Stone Cold Steve Austin, in a car.
The Rock, whose catchphrase “Do you smell what the Rock is cookin’?” is given a rapturous reception wherever he delivers it (should anyone try to persuade me of the superiority of US popular culture over others, I will invite them round to watch the WWF), does the reaction shots to this accusation at least as well as an actor in a daytime soap, and is pretty good with the mike too. Clearly, to be a WWF star these days you need not only to have something of the acrobat, but to be a passable ham actor, as well as having the ability to sit on the face of a 130kg man with long blond curls without breaking into helpless giggles.
You have to admire chaps who can multi-skill in this way and you would happily applaud them for adding to the public stock of harmless amusement were there not the very real prospect of WWF wrestling breaking through in a big way. My 15-year-old son, who appears in every other way to be an intelligent and discerning young man, spends much of Saturday morning scouring the Internet for WWF “results”. My suggestion that they could save a lot of trouble by giving the results out before the fights is scorned.