The Gorgeous, Indestructible Gael

By PATRICK CAMPBELL ONE of the bonuses I want for Christmas is another card from Jack Doyle, the well- known tenor, all-in wrestler and former White heavyweight boxing hope, wherever he may be.

Last time—it must have been three or four years ago—the ieason of rejoicing caught him in Grimsby. From that dark, fish-ridden city I re- ceived a plain, white square of printed pasteboard, with a gilt-type substance round the edges. It announced that Mr. Jack Doyle, now appearing in 'Randall's Scandals,' wished all his friends a very merry Xmas.

I was delighted to find the natural gallantry of the man in no whit abated by his fate. Despite the combination of `Randall's Scandals'—a girlie show occasionally impeded by the police—and Grimsby for Christmas, the old, debonair deter- mination was still there to insist that all was for the best, in the best of all possible worlds.

Jack, I calculated, probably had a solo spot in the first half, singing the 'Rose of Tralee' and 'Danny Boy,' and in the second obliged, while the girlies paraded in picture hats and G-strings, with an off-stage rendition of 'A Pretty Girl is like a Melody'; a modest occupation for a man who had once filled the White City, even if he was carried out of it feet. first thirty seconds later, having been felled by the first blow delivered by his opponent, Eddie Phillips.

Even from that set-hack, however, Jack emerged a kind of winner, for he was to be seen around the West End the very next night in a white dinner-jacket, escorting beautiful women, while Phillips retired to purely local fame in Bow.

And so, I reflected, it had been ever, since,. _ notably in J. Doyle's post-war, all-in wrestling career—a short but gloriously confused period during which he was known as the Gorgeous Gael, or, in some programmes, Gale.

I saw all those fights, but three of them stand out head and shoulders above the rest. The results, according to the record book, were : (1) Doyle declared the'winncr, after being knocked unconscious by a foul blow.

(2) Doyle retired hurt in round five, after an injury of mysterious origin.

(3) Doyle declared the loser, after failing to appear at all.

The first of these disordered struggles was a return match between the Gorgeous Gael and Eddie Phillips, his former conqueror at the White . . . of social contacts' . . City, who by now had been a publican in the East End of London for some years. It was hoped that this factor, coupled with Phillips's total in- experience of wrestling, would give the Gael a chance to put on a rather longer show than he had before.

This he did, but it was outside the ring.

Phillips, as challenger to whatever title had been devised, was through the ropes first, looking ill at ease but belligerent in a pair of long, black woollen tights, terminating in boxing boots—an ensemble possibly aimed at keeping him warm.

He needed it, for by the end of five chilly minutes there was still no sign of the opposition. Spectators at the ringside filled in the interval by warning Phillips in jocular terms—they'd seen Doyle wrestle—of the near-bestial assault that was about to be launched against him, but even these experts had underestimated the Gael, for suddenly the smoke-thick air of Harringay was pierced by the squeal of bagpipes. The searchlights swung round to one of the entrances and there he was, striding down the aisle in his white silk, dressing-gown with the green, shamrock em- broidered over the heart, preceded by four pipers in second-hand tartan kilts, squeezing out 'O'Donnel Abu,' A great roar of applause went up from the packed arena. The Gael waved a hand in acknow- ledgment, and marched on behind his men, who by now had completed the first familiar bars of their martial air and were searching, by trial and error, to find the notes that started it again. This concentration on the music, rather than upon -where they were going, proved their undoing.

I turned from the ringside just in time to see it happen. A smartly dressed woman in the front row, already shaken by the beginnings of hysteri- cal laughter, put out a neatly shod foot as the first pair of pipers came abreast of her. She hooked the nearest one round his off-white gaiter, and brought him down. He fell on his bagpipes, which let out a piercing cry. The other three pipers fell on top of him, the sudden compression of their instruments making an agonising addition to the din.

The Gorgeous Gael, some way behind them, gave no sign that anything untoward had occurred. He didn't even look down. Daintily lifting his boat-like boots, he stepped high over the rem- nants of his shattered entourage, blowing kisses to the now delirious crowd. He climbed into the ring, clasped his hands above his head in the immemorial gesture, and then found that Eddie Phillips had gone.

At some time during the bagpipe deluge the challenger had slipped away to his dressing-room —a beautifully limed move that reduced the champion's tremendous entrance almost to noth- ing.

The Gael did not hesitate. He made a wide gesture, indicating that victory was his, descended from the ring again and retired—thankfully, I guessed—to the safety of his own quarters.

It was twenty minutes before the management succeeded in returning the two warriors to the arena at the same time. They were in and out like' weather-men, neither wishing to be subjected 10 the indignity of waiting for the other, By this time, of course, the audience was roaring for action, unable to wait to see, on the basis Of the preliminaries, what would happen when battle was actually joined.

Unfortunately, it didn't last much longer than the White City debdc/e. Eddie Phillips, short on wrestling technique, became irritated by pressing weight of the Gael, and suddenly put hilt flat on the canvas with the same right-hand punch that had done the damage before. He WO disqualified, amid pandemonium. I lost no time in forcing my way into the DoYk dressing-room, to record the injured party's judgment on the fight.

He was sitting on a low bunk, apparently 1111' marked, being tended by his seconds, and several girls. He brushed them away on seeing me. 'All, there you are, Pat;' he said. 'Good boy. that Phillips, isn't he'? We'll make something of hit% once he learns the rules,'

There was no doubt who was the winner, once again:

This victory, however, had an unfortunate out' come, for as a result of it Jack was matched with sterner opposition than any that had yet come his way, in the person, no less, of Two-Ton TonY Galento, former heavyweight boxing champion of the world.

Galento, it will be remembered, was the pro' 'prietor of a tavern in Orange, New Jersey, and trained for his title fights behind his own bar of' a diet of cigars and beer. After various murderous assaults on other American heavyweights he re' tired to concentrate on the diet, while making trP his receipts with all-in wrestling on the side.

Concerned for Jack's safety and wishing to dis- cover, if poSsible in advance, what Galento's plan; might be for the result of the coming fight, called upon him as soon as he arrived in Loll' don.

We met at midday. At this comparatively callY hour I was surprised to see traces of mauve lip' stick on the champion's bristling jaw. I then Vent a moment in wondering at the courage of the lath who'd presented him with this tribute, for TO' Ton Tony was exactly named. He was built lo" t° the ground in a gabardine suit, with a wide-briny med hat almost concealing the single, thick hlaci( eyebrow that crossed his face from one caulifloWef ear to the other. He was accompanied by 11.15 manager, an equally thick-set figure with self white hair. Both of them were totally silent, being apparently, shy. took them to lunch in the French pub in Dean Street, feeling that my charges would he Ies5 conspicuous in these Bohemian surroundings than.; say, at the Savoy—and realised I'd made a mistake' as soon as we were presented with the menu, to French. Galento and his manager stared at it .111 °If lowered, heavy heads, not speaking a word.; don't think they knew what its purpose wa, Quickly selecting the simplest dish--Jairtb,011 braise —1 translated it to them as 'cooked hair. Galento looked at his manager for a long 01e, Then he formulated a question. 'What's hail'? he said.

l.he manager considered it. He said he di 410 know.

ordered three Jam/tons, in the hope that they would think it was noodles, or whatever they wanted. I suggested beer. Galento shook his head. 'Nuttin',' he said. 'Awreddy I drunka bottle Scatch.'

I didn't believe it. I ordered a Cotes du Rhone for myself, knowing I was going to need it. Galento picked up the bottle the moment it was placed on the table. He seized a glass in his other, hairy hand. 'I'll take wine,' he said. Almost immediately, the bottle was empty, but at least it had the effect of promoting conversation.

Galento extended his fist towards me. The knuckles were skinned and enormously swollen. 'I'm wrasslin' a bear,' he said. 'He gets frisky, so I godda lay him down.' The manager nodded thoughtfully, contemplating a very dangerous moment.

'What's dis guy Doyle?' Galento wanted to know. 'He's a big guy?'

I told them that Doyle was very big indeed, and then added, madly, 'He wears Max Factor sun-tan make-up in the ring.'

Galento thought it over. 'He's a fairy?' he asked, without surprise or animosity. It was all the same to him. Wrestle a bear one night, and a fairy the next. All good for business.

I assured him that Jack was the absolute reverse of a fairy. Galento nodded again. 'I like to meet dis guy,' he said. 'I rough him up a liddle,' Some news of this intention must have leaked through to the Gorgeous Gael, for when he came down the aisle at Harringay two nights later, to the usual screams from the girls, he was devoid of pipers and other time-wasting paraphernalia, and looked as if he wished to get the whole thing over as quickly as possible, with minimum damage all round.

I didn't blame him. Galento, dressed in black fur and purple trunks, looked capable of stiffen- ing any number of his brother bears, never mind a frangible human being.

The fi5ht, however, went fairly well. Galento, some two feet the shorter, was obviously afraid of Doyle falling on him, and doing him an injury, so that for most of the time he tried to keep out of the skyscraper's way. Towards the end Of the fourth round, however, they began to get the slow hand-clap, coupled with the suggestion that if the band would play Love You Truly' they could waltz.

Nettled, most unwisely, by this routine criticism, Jack moved in to the attack. With a startling dis- play of strength he suddenly hoisted the surprised Galento on to his shoulders and started a laboured pirouette, trying to work up enough speed to throw Galento out of the ring by centrifugal force. He managed two and a half revolutions, ran out of steam, buckled at the knees and dropped Galento, with a thud that shook the whole arena, right on top of his head. The bear-wrestler was only half- way up and still groggy when the bell went for the end of the round.

He was as fresh as a daisy, however, but much uglier when the fifth round began. He was, indeed, half-way across the ring, moving fast, while Jack still had his back turned, in subdued consulta- tion with his seconds.

Everything happened very quickly. One of the seconds gave a hoarse cry of warning. Jack in- stinctively ducked, half swung round to meet the foe, and then disaster struck. His face contorted in agony. He clapped one hand to his side and threw up the other like a traffic policeman. 'Stop!' he cried.

Incredibly, Galento did. It was probably more from surprise than any humanitarian feelings. 'Rib gone!' I heard Jack moan, and then the ring was full of seconds, timekeepers, referees, promo- ters and enraged members of the audience, all of whom wanted the fight to go on, but the Gorgeous Gael, towering high above them all, was unable to oblige. He was led from the ring, hand still clutch- ing his side, smiling bravely through the pain.

I paid my usual formal call backstage. Jack was sitting on the bed, suffering massage, `Ah, there you are, Pat,' he said, as elegant as ever, the luxuriant black curls neatly combed. `Damn shame, wasn't it, the rib going? I was going to take him in the next.'

The record book says that Galento won, but we all knew who was the real victor.

The promoter seemed to know, too, for soon afterwards, amid a cannonade of publicity, it was announced that Jack Doyle would fight Primo C'arnera for one of the then open heavyweight all-in wrestling championships of the world.

This was a very serious matter indeed. Primo; even in his maturity, was a foot larger than Jack all round, and could have thrown Two-Ton Tony Galento out of the ring with one hand. Since his retirement from boxing he'd taken on, and half- killed, wrestlers all over America, many of them scarcely coinciding with human form. It looked as though our man had been sentenced at least to a broken ankle, unless he could devise a grip on the situation more ingenious than anything we had yet seen in his repertoire. He was not found wanting. I was dining in the restaurant at Harringay, fortifying myself for the massacre to come, when a white-faced publicity man rushed in with the news that J. Doyle had arrived for the championship of the world with his own doctor, a cardiac specialist who had diagnosed in the great frame of the Gorgeous Gael palpitations of the heart. The cardiac specialist, a keen sportsman, was none the less com- pelled to refuse to allow his patient to fight, a decision that disappointed him, seeing that Carnera was already in the ring and eager to get on with it.

. All hell rapidly blossomed. The audience started howling. Camera departed and was hauled back again. His handlers threatened legal action. Police moved closer to the ring. In the midst of this pandemonium the Doyle dressing-room formed an oasis of calm. The door was locked. No sound emerged from inside.

The cheaper seats had begun to roar for the return of their money when the management had an idea of clear, pellucid brilliance. They sent for a second opinion. He turned out to be a small and absolutely terrified general practitioner, who'd been plucked away from his loved ones in Manor House just as he was sitting down to a hard-earned evening meal.

They beat on the door of the Gael's dressing- room, and shoved the doctor in. No one will ever know what took place during the consultation. We only knew the result.

It was announced over the loudspeakers. Jack Doyle, owing to a sudden indisposition, would be unable to fight. His place would be taken by-- there was a dramatic pause—`Bukht, the Human Gorilla!'

Patrons of all-in wrestling are accustomed to disappointment. They have to be. But I must admit we did feel that with Bukht, the Human Gorilla, we were getting the short end of the stick.

He was an elderly, almost circular little man with a domed, bald head rising straight out of his shoulders. I le'd probably been wrestling for thirty years, on and off, wearing the same pair of patched red woollen trunks, but he'd never before run into anything like Primo Camera, the Ambling Alp. He had courage, though. Time and again he flung himself against the mighty legs of the Alp, trying to get a grip on them. The All', whose enormous face wore a deeply puzzled look, tried to hold him off with a hand that covered the whole of the Human Gorilla's head.

It was slow fighting, short on incident, but sod' denly the whole evening was redeemed. I felt a

movement beside me, and turned to see Jack Doyle slipping into a vacant seat. He wore hi° white silk dressing-gown with the green shamrock . . . turns out to have . . . over the heart. Under it, he was stripped for wrestling. He looked, I thought, bronzed and fit, and in cheerful mood.

'Ah, there you are, Pat,' he said. 'How's it going?' He looked up with interest, to analyse, the proceedings in the ring.

Something was happening at last. Primo, wish- ing to show the crowd some action, had picked up Bukht, holding him at either end like a large vegetable marrow, and was looking for some- where to throw him. In the interests, perhaps, of symmetry, he selected Bukht's own corner, and discharged the old man towards it. Bukht landed with a crash, half in and half out of the ring.

Clear above the roar of the crowd came an un- mistakably Irish voice from the cheaper seats, up underneath the roof.

'Hey, Jack !' it called. 'Just looka wha' you're missin' I' I turned, in wonder, to watch the Gael's reac- tion. It was a buoyant one. He faced the gods and with no trace of modesty clasped his hands above his head, and waved with a brilliant smile. A moment later he was signing autographs for three spellbound girls, while—just above him—the ageing Bukht completed another parabola of the ring.

I don't know what Jack's doing now. Whatever it is, I'd like to heir news of it, on a Christmas card. It would, 1 feel, give me a kind of strength to face the rigours of the New Year.