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| John Cena...a hero to fat Americans |
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.
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| 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.
