WHAM! KAPOW! THAT'S SOLID CONCRETE!

`British Bulldog' and his colleagues

are touring Britain: Daisy Waugh

investigates the new wrestling cult

VINCE McMAHON JUNIOR had a dream. Or he spotted a hole in the market. He had a dream and he had a lot of money. So the hole was filled, the dream was realised and at least a hundred million peo- ple's lives were made the better for it. The beginning, the middle and the end of a happy story. Now for the details.

By the mid 1980s, the world was growing a little tired of old-style English wrestling. Giant Haystacks, Big Daddy and the rest of their gang were failing to pull in the pun- ters. Their monotonous fighting method (opponents were held in a tight embrace for minutes at a time) and insufficiently sun-tarnished bodies were turning the viewers away to such an extent that in 1988, Independent Television decided to confis- cate their airtime. ITV wanted to 'update its sporting image'. So, for a little while at least, there was no wrestling on television of any kind.

But not for long. Because across the Herring Pond, alive and kicking, was the hardworking Vince McMahon and his wretched dream. He had inherited from his recently deceased father a wrestling organi- sation called the WWWF (World Wide Wrestling Federation.) His dream, of course, was to make it bigger. Or, in the words of the people who talk for him, the press releases and the fans who swallow it whole, he wanted to make wrestling an `entertainment product'. He wanted to rejuvenate its fat-bellied image, and to bring to it a soap-opera style glamour.

This he did. He built himself a glass- walled air-conditioned office, knocked one of the Ws off the name of his federation, signed up a host of malleable but perfectly sculptured supermen fighters, made exclu- sive deals with the biggest venues in the United States, tampered slightly with the rules of the game and invented an 'enter- tainment product', to delight the world.

Nine years after Vince McMahon senior's death, the realisation of his son's dream, this extraordinary spectacle, has brought adrenalin-filled ecstasy — I do not exaggerate — to tens of millions of kiddies across the globe. Those unfortunates who are unable to see the action live or on tele- vision can get the videos. WWF releases four or five videos every month. Last year they sold a million of them.

So now, we have this typical domestic scene. I am 12. I may be British, Canadian, Mexican, German, Australian, Japanese, French, Spanish, Nigerian. I may be one of any number of nationalities but I'm at home. I'm sitting in front of my telly, crisps, tomato ketchup and Coke (in a WWF mug) arranged carelessly around me. My four action-men type dolls, all miniatures of real-life wrestling personali- ties, are resting on my lap. I have spent the morning helping them to fight it out in my new toy-size WWF wrestling ring but the batteries which help at the touch of buttons marked, variously, `YEHI', W00-00- 001', `OHH-ONH!', to provide appropri- ate sound affects, have recently run out. Which is why I have chosen this moment to watch the real thing. I am wearing a T-shirt with a photograph of two half-naked men on the front. I think they are my favourite wrestlers this week. My situation is delight- ful. I settle down to watch.

The stadium is packed. Seventy-five thousand spectators await the arrival of the stars, El Matador and Shawn Michaels. Above the Tannoyed rock music and the roar of the juvenile crowd, the commenta- tors struggle, often unsuccessfully, to be heard. They give up as the rock music gets louder. `He makes me hot. He makes me shiver' the loud speakers scream. And out struts the muscle-bound, bronze-bodied, gum- chewing, shades-sporting Shawn Michaels. Hysteria. Shawn's a bad guy. Very arro- gant. So the crowd boos and jeers (and so do I) and he smirks and flexes. Behind him trots an ageing, overweight love-chick. She has definitely seen better days. She's wear- ing a white, satin-look ensemble, bare at the belly and cut off just above the crotch. Her right cheek has a glittery heart stuck onto it, the top of which is in danger of smudging with her eye make-up.

What a fight! Or what a dance. Does anybody ever hit anyone in this game? It's hard to tell. The two protagonists, both on the same payroll, both of whom will have fought maybe four times already this week, bounce off the ropes a lot, grimace and growl and throw their heads about, jump over each others' gleaming, moisturised bodies, stamp their feet. But, like cartoon characters, nobody ever seems to get hurt: Wham! Shawn stamps his foot and appears to lash out at El Matador's ear. El Mata- dor tumbles backwards, shakes his head, looks angry. And bounces back. Kapow!

A few minutes later and it's over. We watch Shawn Michaels' victory roll from a camera position behind his lover's thighs, which are against the edge of the ring. The top of my television screen is taken up by her lacy white gusset. She's waiting, as a good tart would, until he beckons her with just the one finger, to join him centre stage. She totters up. He takes her by the hair and throws her to the ground. The crowd roars appreciation. She stretches, smiles up to him in adoration. He flexes his muscles one more time.

But now my parents have returned with a new set of batteries and they both want to watch something on one of the many other channels.

The world of wrestling is divided into two main leagues, both of which are American. The WWF is described by its more expert fans as the 'junior school to the WCW'. The World Championship of Wrestling is thought to be less showy, but the only evidence I can find to support such a theory is that on WCW you can hear what the commentators are saying. Things like: 'And again let's reiterate. There are no mats on the floor there. That's solid concrete. It's the real thing. It's WCW.'

Wrestlers regularly move from one league to another. Davey Smith, alias `British Bulldog', for example, our greatest wrestling export and a man with 32-inch thighs, has recently moved from WWF to WCW. He is in the process of sorting out a legal squabble with his former employers over whether he should be allowed to con- tinue to use his professional name. It looks like he is going to win. He had the name patented a few years ago himself.

British Bulldog (who along with his WCW colleagues will be touring the British Isles from 11-17 March) was in pain when I spoke to him. He is always in pain. In fact he says the last time he can remember not being in pain was about five years ago. He once suggested to his wife, a body-builder, that he give up wrestling and do something else.

`But she said I couldn't do it. They'd all jump on me. My wife. My son.'

Poor old Bulldog. It's not even as if the money was that wonderful. Not when you compare it to what boxers make. Or lawyers. These wrestlers don't have a very nice life. 'These guys', a WWF spokesman said of his wrestlers, 'are our product. They're our property. They're our copy- righted characters. We own them, and we have design approval over them. They can't change their hairstyle without asking us. We reserve creative control.'

And for all that, according to the devot- ed fan and wrestling photo-journalist, Colin Bowman, the top ones probably 'only' make around £100,000 a year. They do get royalties from the merchandise, though. And most of them, — 'The Undertaker', `Sid Justice', 'Macho Man', 'Randy Savage', `Rowdy Roddy Piper', 'Sergeant Slaughter', `Big Boss Man' — will have had a dolly made in their image.

`It's like a soap opera,' says Colin Bow- man. You can't get bored of wrestling. You're always getting new characters. And if the character gets stale then all he has to do is change his image. I think the whole thing, the soap opera thing, really took off in the States with Hulk Hogan. He's a good guy. When the Iranians had the US hostages there was this Iranian wrestler, `The Iron Sheik'. He was the champ. But Hulk flattened him and the kids loved it. Yes. That was definitely the beginning.'

Of the end.