John Cena and WWE are proof that this grumpy old grappler is past it

John Cena...a hero to fat Americans

Maybe it’s just old age, but I get the impression that America has more brain-dead citizens than any other nation.
And Britain is not far behind, judging by the popularity of the grapple-and-grope circus the Yanks call World Wrestling Entertainment.
I’m talking about the moronic parade of extrovert fall guys which to me represents the World’s Worst Entertainment.
During the 60 seconds I allowed my intelligence to be insulted by WWE on Sky TV, I gathered that the general idea is for some flamboyant 30-stone freak of nature to bellow theatrical death threats at another fat b****** before the two bit-part actors fling their flab at each other in a contrived collision of greased blubber.
The winner is whichever blobby bit-part actor the promoters have decided will bring in the biggest profit from pin-headed punters who buy into the rubbish at inflated ticket prices. And there are millions of them ploughing 3D amounts of dinero, dollars and dosh into the pockets of the moneybags marketeers who peddle their technicolour tripe not only to kids, but also to adults with a mental age of eight and under.
Last year, my son-in-law paid £250 or so to take my two grandsons, aged 14 and eight, to watch one of these over-the-top gushings of Las Vegas glitz on tour in Manchester. That is approximately one per cent of the amount it would have cost WWE to lure my ancient butt into a front-row seat at the Arena. Top that up with danger money to cover decapitation by a mass of flying flab and my total attendance bill would have come to around £30,000. All subject to Fall-you Added Tax, of course. Or FAT as it is known in the States.
Having said that, the WWE scenario is a throwback (or should that be throw forward?) to the halcyon days of the ‘60s and ‘70s, when Kent Walton's mid-Atlantic twang marketed the theatrics of Big Daddy, Giant Haystacks, Jackie Pallo and Co to British TV viewers. The outcome of these contests was usually pre-arranged and the so-called world titles were of course a complete fabrication.
For all that, Walton’s waffle was good fun to listen to and a celebrity cult developed with the names of the heaviest contestants becoming almost as big as their elephantine waistlines.

Giant Haystacks....6ft 11in and weighed 48 stone

I had the dubious privilege of living a couple of streets away from 48-stone Haystacks and his family in north Manchester. On the one occasion I saw him out and about, old straw belly was wedged into the driver's seat of his parked car, which he had outgrown by at least 25 sizes. The 6ft 11in monster was also sitting in the passenger seat, the back seats, and for all I know under the bonnet as well. How he had levered himself into the vehicle, I have no idea. For all I know he could still be trapped inside, 17 years after his death.
One thing I’ll concede to ITV’s Walton package, which ran until 1988, is that Haystacks and Co. were good entertainment. You knew the results were of the much-publicised Pallo v Mick McManus showdowns were meaningless, but it was fun to watch the showmen goading each in the build-up to their imaginary ‘world title’ showdowns.
A kind of 1970s WWE, I suppose. The sort of thing I used to enjoy in my long-lost youth.
What am I saying? That I was once no better than the fat, brain-dead American whose ultimate hero is WWE’s so-called world heavyweight champion John Cena?
You win, WWE - by a submission. I’m a Grumpy Old Gran who is forgetting that she was once young and full of fight like any Cena fan.
But at least I'm not a fat American.

Why you can't bank on your bank to bank your bankings

Whilst life sometimes seems to go into slow motion in Spanish banks, one does usually get the job done – whether it’s paying in money, sorting out bills or trying to prove you’ve been ripped off over service charges. Only in the latter situation you never win.

In the UK, service is invariably a lot quicker. So how on earth did I spend half an hour in my local Halifax branch last week making a vain attempt to pay two small cheques into my account – and leave with the money still in my handbag?

Never mind the snow and ice, the whole episode was a frozen waste, which ended with me making a protest walkout after all my efforts to gain just a little credit proved futile.

So how did I manage to spend 30 minutes standing on the spot and achieving precisely nothing?

Well, let’s take it chronologically. Since this particular Halifax branch has a designated automatic paying-in machine, I could avoid the inevitable long queue at the cash desk. Or so I thought. (I don’t do queues or traffic jams, as anyone who know this particular Mrs Stresshead will vouch).

www. freeimages.co.uk

The problem was that the paying-in machine decided it had a fault and could neither process my cheques nor return them. However, it did manage to gobble both drafts up before informing me.

‘’Your cheques have not been credited and we cannot return them,’’ read the subsequent message on the screen, or words to that effect. ‘’Consult a staff member.’’ Which I did.

Cue bank-raid security drill. A staff member built like Rambo said he would need to open up the machine – but for security reasons, a colleague had to lock the main entrance while he did it - with an office full of customers inside.

 This obligatory anti-robbery procedure took several minutes as Rambo made a one-man foray into the machinations of the state-of-the-art paying-in device, unlocking various boxes and eventually pulling out a metal tray which contained a couple of cheques.

As if that wasn’t delay enough, the whole procedure then had to be repeated as his first attempt produced only one of my two cheques – plus a rogue draft I had never seen before.

Bank Raid Precaution, exercise two duly achieved deliverance of my second cheque to Rambo-man. But only after several more minutes of customer lock-in.

By now I had been in the branch for 20 minutes just to pay in two cheques worth a total of £71. And they were no nearer reaching my account than they had been when I arrived.

The only way to get the money credited now was via the pay-in counter. Cue the problem for which the cheque machine had presumably been installed – a frustratingly long queue at the counter.

Have you ever seen all the tills in your bank or building society manned (or more often than not womanned) at the same time? I certainly haven’t. And isn’t it remarkable that at the times cashiers are most needed, at least one suddenly takes a coffee/ lunch/tea/cigarette break?

Equation – four tills and 20 people waiting. Chance of all four tills being manned – nil. Chances of one of the two cashiers actually working taking a break – even money.

On this occasion, I found myself adrift of six queuing customers, plus two who were already at the desk. The obligatory two out of four tills were unwomanned.

After five more minutes, the same two customers were still prevaricating with the two unflappable cashiers. That’s one thing I will give those girls – I’ve never seen one get angry or ‘hurry-up’ a customer. Maybe that’s why there are always queues, who knows?

I was becoming more and more frustrated, my two cheques still in my hand…and those six customers plus two prevaricators still ahead of me.

Enough is enough, I thought. I bundled my cheques back in my purse, turned on my heel, muttered a suppressed ''I’ll come back later’’ to the still-hovering Rambo-man, and went home.

Half an hour completely wasted – for precisely nothing. Well, I did get this Grumpy column out of it, I suppose. And another chance to demonstrate why 21st-century Britain is not for me.

Having said that, I could tell you some horror stories about Spanish banks, so watch this space.

Read more of my rants at www.grumpyoldgran.com and http://www.eyeonspain.com/blogs/donnagee.aspx