I had never been to a wrestling match before. But violence begets violence, and so expecting trouble I prepared my defences. I wore steel caps. I even took a spare set of shoes in my bag – in case violence had begotten so much violence that steel caps had been banned!
The woman on the door had other concerns.
“Raffle ticket?”
“Um… sure. What do I win?”
“A magnum of champagne and these kitchen scales.”
Quite a combination. “Okay, Give me two tickets.”
I entered the arena. Lights bright, music pumping, I surveyed the crowd feeling well out of place – I should have worn trainers, something with a brand name. And I should have brought children – they were everywhere! Running around the arena, in and out of the bar, and under my legs. Black Betty went wild, Bam-ba-Lam, as I stepped over a child, Bam-ba-Lam, and claimed a seat as mine. Young men and women continued to pour in to fill the seats with their children. It was a family affair. Buddy cokes all around.
Just near me, a dozen folk in wheelchairs sat in matching caps. Caps which declared them to be the ‘South Australian Lawn Bowls Team’. Must be much more dangerous than I ever imagined, lawn bowls. Much more dangerous than wrestling.
The announcer dragged a microphone up to the ring. It was Mean Gene Okerlund – wrestling’s greatest announcer! (minus the moustache.) “Welcome to the Brahma Lodge Indoor Sports Centre for a huge night of wrestling” (and minus the charisma).
Mean Gene gave us the line up, reading from the same program I had in my hand. He called the ref, Robert Chop Chop, to the ring. And then he called for the wrestlers…
First came good versus evil. Mad Dog in white faced up to Mean Mick Manson in black, an ugly man with an ugly attitude for the crowd. They yelled for his blood. Mad Dog spilled it, but then he himself turned on the crowd. “People who marry their sisters don’t deserve to see wrestling like this!”
A grudge match between former tag team partners, Gangsta and Dungeon Master, sparked interest in the crowd. Both were masked and Dungeon Master had an executioner’s axe tucked under his cloak. The axe actually worried me a bit. I was sort of buying into it. I mean, sure it was fake. Everything rehearsed and set up. But no one really cared who won or lost. It was the theatrics that mattered!
Barrrie bin Laden (from Iraq) had theatrics. He prayed (south) to Mecca (on a tea towel) before starting his fight. Barrie was a bold character, but he had nothing on Jesus! Our Saviour floated about the ring blessing the crowd. That is, until Steel Spike smashed him over the head with a folding chair. The Almighty left limping.
George ‘The Hit Man’ Julio (great name) hit a nerve with the crowd. “Port suck! You suck!”
But the prize for working the crowd had to go to Jungle Cat. Like any Adelaide comedian, he worked an old theme.
“Is everyone feeling good in Salisbury tonight?”
They were.
“If Salisbury was part of the human body… it’d be the part that you wipe after taking a crap!”
The kids loved it!
“If Salisbury was part of the human body… you’d all be TURDS!”
It was too much for one man. He stood up, took off his jacket and threw it to the floor. He actually quivered and shook as he shouted back at Jungle Cat.
Rhino was unmistakable as an unmasked Dungeon Master, weighing in at an identical two hundred and ninety six pounds. Again he fought Gangsta, who came unmasked as the Candy Man. Children scrambled to catch lollies he threw to the crowd. Then came my favourite…
“We got a fairy out there!”
It was Mozart!
“He’s got shaving rash on his belly.”
Indeed he did. Mozart in pink, the most flamboyant of all, skipped through the crowd, his hair in pigtails, a heart on his butt. Things really got interesting when Mozart came on. Wrestlers started piling into the ring. Insano, so pretty. Thunder Kid and Rack Dogg, the crowd calling for them to ‘go doggie style’ and have ‘scooby sex’. There was a lot of flesh flying around. It ended with four men in a row, arms wrapped around waists, slamming each other about the ring. It was one hell of a climax! One hell of a show!
With the wrestlers wriggling away, I readied to leave, but…
“Time for the raffle draw!”
Mad Dog extracted himself from the flesh heap to draw the winning ticket.
“C13!” called Mean Gene.
No winner came up to claim the prize. No one. A Mean Gene with no mo and an uncomfortable wrestler with his hands in his pockets – they didn’t know what to do. They looked lost in the ring. If Mad Dog biffed Mean Gene, I reckon everyone would have felt a lot more comfortable. It appeared to be beyond them that someone could have possibly left early. They redrew and redrew the raffle, never finding a winner. On it went, again and again.
I could not watch any more. I took to my heels and left. The wrestling was something, but I had had enough of the raffle. I don’t have a taste for champagne anyway. And kitchen scales? Well kitchen scales are just trouble.