Black Widow
04-22-2008, 05:24 PM
The monsters of world wrestling have been on a sell-out tour of Britain. But aren't their shows just a sham?
Two heavily oiled men in very tight trunks are rolling around on the floor. The one on top is a 24-stone Samoan called Umaga. He has silver teeth, acres of tattoos and pecs that look like two huge hams.
Squashed beneath him in spangly tights and a silver choker is a Canadian called Chris Jericho.
Both are enormous. As they grunt and do their best to beat each other to a pulp, fireworks explode around them, heavy rock music blasts and 13,000 people scream and shout.
"Sit on him! Break his arm! Smash his head!" shouts a man holding a home-made placard that reads: "Jericho smells."
"Come on, Jericho, show him your stuff - you're the champ!
"Smash him from the top rope," yells his neighbour.
And, from my nine-year- old nephew, William: "It isn't fair. He can't get up - the big one's holding him down. Aren't there any rules? He's being really mean. Surely you shouldn't be allowed to stamp on someone's head . . ."
Welcome to WWE (World Wrestling Entertainment), which generates more than $1 billion a year, has a massive following on satellite TV - the live shows are televised three times a week in 26 countries - and last week was touting its sweaty, oily, vein-popping delights around Britain in a sell-out tour: London's O2 Arena, Liverpool, Cardiff, Birmingham, Sheffield, Newcastle and Glasgow.
Because, nearly 30 years after Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks were rolling around with their huge guts and neatly laced white boots on Saturday afternoon telly, wrestling is back. And, if the two shows at the O2 were anything to go by, it's more popular than ever.
Earlier in the day - before his unfortunate squashing - a fantastically tanned and rippling Chris Jericho (aka The Living Legend, Vitamin C or Sexy Beast - take your pick) gave me an inkling as to what to expect.
"The thing about our show is that it really is the greatest show on earth," he said.
"It's rock'n'roll and pyrotechnics and lights and lasers. It's like an action-adventure comedy drama with good-looking girls, good-looking guys and everything in between."
Sounds brilliant. But isn't it a teeny bit violent for a nine-year- old? I've seen snippets on TV where they smash each other with chairs, dustbin lids and anything else that's handy, and then jump up and down on each other's heads.
"No, no, no! Of course it can be a bit rough - it's a contact sport. And there are times when things gets ramped up and a little violent," said Jericho.
"But the story-line's always coming through and the guy's going to win in the end. It's like a modern-day morality play with something for all the family."
So, there are fireworks and lasers, wrestlers called The Boogeyman and Triple H, and a 6ft 10in giant called The Undertaker.
Oh, and a slew of very attractive women in jewel- encrusted bikini tops who pinch and punch and yank each other's hair.
"I can't believe there are ladies fighting," my nephew said. "Do the ladies fight the men? They must be very agile."
No. At least I don't think so. But then maybe they do. It seems that pretty much everything else goes, such as a dwarf called Hornswoggle, who dresses up as a leprechaun and, every now and then, pops out from under the ring to dance an Irish jig.
"He doesn't actually wrestle - it wouldn't be fair," said Henry Jacob, WWE's PR in London. "So, his job is to trip up someone or hit them with a stick or do something silly. Then he'll run off again. It's really funny and all part of the story."
Which is key. Recently there was a storyline that had him as the WWE owner's illegitimate son. And two of the wrestlers fought over whether he was or wasn't.
"There are always loads of grudges and feuds. It's like a soap opera and they're the actors."
Or, as Jericho put it: "It's like being a Shakespearean performer in the modern age - it's all about contacting with the crowd. So it's very important to be a good speaker, like Winston Churchill."
Which isn't exactly who springs to mind as we watch Jericho gasping for breath beneath Umaga's massive weight a few hours later.
"I don't see how men can survive that," my nephew said.
"They've got to have reinforced spines. But it's really, really good, isn't it? And so loud."
Previously known as the WWF (World Wrestling Federation) until it was sued by the World Wildlife Fund who wanted their initials back, the WWE really took off in the mid-Eighties.
That was when Vince McMahon, the American, cigar-chewing, multimillionaire owner, publicly admitted what everyone had known for ages: wrestling plots are cooked up by a team of writers and producers, the lines carefully scripted and the result fixed.
Today, all the moves are divvied up beforehand, along the lines of: "You power-slam me off the ropes, then I'll do a neck-breaker on you, then we'll go into the clothes line and I'll stamp on your head, OK?"
And the other wrestler will say: "Yeah, great. But before that, I'll do the double-crunching rip curl on you - just to even it out a bit."
It goes without saying that they're all absolutely massive, with 21in necks and thighs so big they can't walk straight.
There's a bald man called Kane who's 7ft. And a scary-looking man in black tights called Big Daddy V, who weighs nearly 36st.
And MVP, a rippling giant from Miami, who, in the corridor backstage, grabbed me and held me upside down until a young autograph hunter burst into tears and said he was frightened.
Even Jericho - a bit of a tiddler at 6ft - was bulging out of his sharp grey suit as we chatted about steroids.
"They're not part of the business any more," he said. "They can't be - we've been strictly tested over the past couple of years, but they're not really necessary to wrestling. A lot of this is more about mind and personality."
And they all have their "thing". So Jericho has his spangly tights; The Undertaker wears a black hat and long leather coat; and The Boogeyman eats handfuls of real worms and spits them all over his opponent. And they all refer to themselves in the third person.
Then there's the music. "Everyone has a walk-on song - mine's a real anthem called Break Down The Walls," said Jericho.
"It's really important to have the right theme song to capture your character and spirit."
And the right look. "It's a very aesthetic business - it used to be all long, bleached hair, which was a nightmare to maintain, but now it's more tans and tattoos. And it's important to be cut up a bit."
Cut up? "You know: abs, muscle lines, looking pumped. And you've got to be tanned - I love spray tan, though you do get those nasty patches of orange on your hands and feet. I shave my chest every day or so. It's hard work getting it right."
But not, presumably, as hard work as all the fighting.
While it's staged - so most of the blows and stamps don't actually connect, and chairs and bin lids are generally smashed on the front of heads (so the victim can see it coming and move in such a way to cushion the blow) - it's still very physical. The finishing moves alone are tremendously demanding.
"I have three," said Jericho.
"The Walls Of Jericho, where I grab the guy's legs and turn him over to put pressure on his back; the Codebreaker, where I jump up and stick my knees in his face and yank his head down so his face hits my knees; and the Lion-sault, which is a back-flip from the rope over the top of the other guy."
But isn't it all rather dangerous? "They call me the hockey puck because I seem to bounce around and never really break," he said.
"Though I did break my arm and had to have a steel plate put in, and I've had a couple of bulging discs in the neck."
Lance and Trevor, a two-man tag team from the Deep South who call themselves the Red-neck Wrecking Crew, have been less fortunate.
"Three months ago I dislocated my shoulder and the bone was sticking out almost through the skin," said Lance. "It was quite sore, but I was back in six weeks."
If that sounds bad, his partner has had an even more frightening experience.
"I've been really blessed," said Trevor. "The biggest injury I've had was when I was dropped on my head from the top rope and was paralysed for 15 minutes.
"I wasn't unconscious, but I couldn't feel my hands or legs.
I was terrified, but I had a choice: I could go to the hospital and get checked out and be in a neck harness for six or eight weeks, or suck it up and get on with my job.
"Three weeks later, I was in Japan on a training programme. Wrestling is all I've ever wanted to do since I was six years old - I'm in my dream job."
Which is all very well, but it's bloody hard work. Far too hard, if you believe some of the murmurings about the WWE wrestlers being seriously overworked.
According to PR Henry Jacob: "They work 52 weeks a year, have Christmas Day off and are back at it on Boxing Day."
They all work for McMahon and are paid, promoted and controlled according to their success with the audience.
The more boos and cheers they generate, the more wins they're allowed and the higher they go up the ladder. The moment the roar dies, they'll start losing.
"The trip to the top's fast, but the trip out's even faster," said a knackered-looking Lance.
But there are benefits. They won't say how much they're paid, other than 'a lot'; they're immortalised in millions of T-shirts, posters and scary-looking plastic dolls ('They're not dolls! They're action figures and they're beautiful, don't you think?'); and in the U.S. they're celebrities, mobbed when they walk down the street - but only as long as they can keep the crowds baying.
But who cares, because at the O2, the atmosphere was crackling and everyone was having a ball. Particularly us. You can't not enjoy yourself. You'd have to be made of stone.
Because, finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Jericho was staggering to his feet after being squashed by Umaga.
"Come on, Jericho!" William shouted. "Get up and whack him!"
"Lamp him, you loser! Give him one!" I yelled.
Next thing, Jericho unleashed the Lion-sault, hurled himself in a back-flip off the top rope and knocked his opponent flying. The crowd went berserk.
"This is the most brilliant night out ever," said William. "Come on, Jericho! Kick him! Get him! Yes! He so deserved that. Come on, now stamp on his head!
"This is fine for children. Can we come again soon?"
dailymail.co.uk
Two heavily oiled men in very tight trunks are rolling around on the floor. The one on top is a 24-stone Samoan called Umaga. He has silver teeth, acres of tattoos and pecs that look like two huge hams.
Squashed beneath him in spangly tights and a silver choker is a Canadian called Chris Jericho.
Both are enormous. As they grunt and do their best to beat each other to a pulp, fireworks explode around them, heavy rock music blasts and 13,000 people scream and shout.
"Sit on him! Break his arm! Smash his head!" shouts a man holding a home-made placard that reads: "Jericho smells."
"Come on, Jericho, show him your stuff - you're the champ!
"Smash him from the top rope," yells his neighbour.
And, from my nine-year- old nephew, William: "It isn't fair. He can't get up - the big one's holding him down. Aren't there any rules? He's being really mean. Surely you shouldn't be allowed to stamp on someone's head . . ."
Welcome to WWE (World Wrestling Entertainment), which generates more than $1 billion a year, has a massive following on satellite TV - the live shows are televised three times a week in 26 countries - and last week was touting its sweaty, oily, vein-popping delights around Britain in a sell-out tour: London's O2 Arena, Liverpool, Cardiff, Birmingham, Sheffield, Newcastle and Glasgow.
Because, nearly 30 years after Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks were rolling around with their huge guts and neatly laced white boots on Saturday afternoon telly, wrestling is back. And, if the two shows at the O2 were anything to go by, it's more popular than ever.
Earlier in the day - before his unfortunate squashing - a fantastically tanned and rippling Chris Jericho (aka The Living Legend, Vitamin C or Sexy Beast - take your pick) gave me an inkling as to what to expect.
"The thing about our show is that it really is the greatest show on earth," he said.
"It's rock'n'roll and pyrotechnics and lights and lasers. It's like an action-adventure comedy drama with good-looking girls, good-looking guys and everything in between."
Sounds brilliant. But isn't it a teeny bit violent for a nine-year- old? I've seen snippets on TV where they smash each other with chairs, dustbin lids and anything else that's handy, and then jump up and down on each other's heads.
"No, no, no! Of course it can be a bit rough - it's a contact sport. And there are times when things gets ramped up and a little violent," said Jericho.
"But the story-line's always coming through and the guy's going to win in the end. It's like a modern-day morality play with something for all the family."
So, there are fireworks and lasers, wrestlers called The Boogeyman and Triple H, and a 6ft 10in giant called The Undertaker.
Oh, and a slew of very attractive women in jewel- encrusted bikini tops who pinch and punch and yank each other's hair.
"I can't believe there are ladies fighting," my nephew said. "Do the ladies fight the men? They must be very agile."
No. At least I don't think so. But then maybe they do. It seems that pretty much everything else goes, such as a dwarf called Hornswoggle, who dresses up as a leprechaun and, every now and then, pops out from under the ring to dance an Irish jig.
"He doesn't actually wrestle - it wouldn't be fair," said Henry Jacob, WWE's PR in London. "So, his job is to trip up someone or hit them with a stick or do something silly. Then he'll run off again. It's really funny and all part of the story."
Which is key. Recently there was a storyline that had him as the WWE owner's illegitimate son. And two of the wrestlers fought over whether he was or wasn't.
"There are always loads of grudges and feuds. It's like a soap opera and they're the actors."
Or, as Jericho put it: "It's like being a Shakespearean performer in the modern age - it's all about contacting with the crowd. So it's very important to be a good speaker, like Winston Churchill."
Which isn't exactly who springs to mind as we watch Jericho gasping for breath beneath Umaga's massive weight a few hours later.
"I don't see how men can survive that," my nephew said.
"They've got to have reinforced spines. But it's really, really good, isn't it? And so loud."
Previously known as the WWF (World Wrestling Federation) until it was sued by the World Wildlife Fund who wanted their initials back, the WWE really took off in the mid-Eighties.
That was when Vince McMahon, the American, cigar-chewing, multimillionaire owner, publicly admitted what everyone had known for ages: wrestling plots are cooked up by a team of writers and producers, the lines carefully scripted and the result fixed.
Today, all the moves are divvied up beforehand, along the lines of: "You power-slam me off the ropes, then I'll do a neck-breaker on you, then we'll go into the clothes line and I'll stamp on your head, OK?"
And the other wrestler will say: "Yeah, great. But before that, I'll do the double-crunching rip curl on you - just to even it out a bit."
It goes without saying that they're all absolutely massive, with 21in necks and thighs so big they can't walk straight.
There's a bald man called Kane who's 7ft. And a scary-looking man in black tights called Big Daddy V, who weighs nearly 36st.
And MVP, a rippling giant from Miami, who, in the corridor backstage, grabbed me and held me upside down until a young autograph hunter burst into tears and said he was frightened.
Even Jericho - a bit of a tiddler at 6ft - was bulging out of his sharp grey suit as we chatted about steroids.
"They're not part of the business any more," he said. "They can't be - we've been strictly tested over the past couple of years, but they're not really necessary to wrestling. A lot of this is more about mind and personality."
And they all have their "thing". So Jericho has his spangly tights; The Undertaker wears a black hat and long leather coat; and The Boogeyman eats handfuls of real worms and spits them all over his opponent. And they all refer to themselves in the third person.
Then there's the music. "Everyone has a walk-on song - mine's a real anthem called Break Down The Walls," said Jericho.
"It's really important to have the right theme song to capture your character and spirit."
And the right look. "It's a very aesthetic business - it used to be all long, bleached hair, which was a nightmare to maintain, but now it's more tans and tattoos. And it's important to be cut up a bit."
Cut up? "You know: abs, muscle lines, looking pumped. And you've got to be tanned - I love spray tan, though you do get those nasty patches of orange on your hands and feet. I shave my chest every day or so. It's hard work getting it right."
But not, presumably, as hard work as all the fighting.
While it's staged - so most of the blows and stamps don't actually connect, and chairs and bin lids are generally smashed on the front of heads (so the victim can see it coming and move in such a way to cushion the blow) - it's still very physical. The finishing moves alone are tremendously demanding.
"I have three," said Jericho.
"The Walls Of Jericho, where I grab the guy's legs and turn him over to put pressure on his back; the Codebreaker, where I jump up and stick my knees in his face and yank his head down so his face hits my knees; and the Lion-sault, which is a back-flip from the rope over the top of the other guy."
But isn't it all rather dangerous? "They call me the hockey puck because I seem to bounce around and never really break," he said.
"Though I did break my arm and had to have a steel plate put in, and I've had a couple of bulging discs in the neck."
Lance and Trevor, a two-man tag team from the Deep South who call themselves the Red-neck Wrecking Crew, have been less fortunate.
"Three months ago I dislocated my shoulder and the bone was sticking out almost through the skin," said Lance. "It was quite sore, but I was back in six weeks."
If that sounds bad, his partner has had an even more frightening experience.
"I've been really blessed," said Trevor. "The biggest injury I've had was when I was dropped on my head from the top rope and was paralysed for 15 minutes.
"I wasn't unconscious, but I couldn't feel my hands or legs.
I was terrified, but I had a choice: I could go to the hospital and get checked out and be in a neck harness for six or eight weeks, or suck it up and get on with my job.
"Three weeks later, I was in Japan on a training programme. Wrestling is all I've ever wanted to do since I was six years old - I'm in my dream job."
Which is all very well, but it's bloody hard work. Far too hard, if you believe some of the murmurings about the WWE wrestlers being seriously overworked.
According to PR Henry Jacob: "They work 52 weeks a year, have Christmas Day off and are back at it on Boxing Day."
They all work for McMahon and are paid, promoted and controlled according to their success with the audience.
The more boos and cheers they generate, the more wins they're allowed and the higher they go up the ladder. The moment the roar dies, they'll start losing.
"The trip to the top's fast, but the trip out's even faster," said a knackered-looking Lance.
But there are benefits. They won't say how much they're paid, other than 'a lot'; they're immortalised in millions of T-shirts, posters and scary-looking plastic dolls ('They're not dolls! They're action figures and they're beautiful, don't you think?'); and in the U.S. they're celebrities, mobbed when they walk down the street - but only as long as they can keep the crowds baying.
But who cares, because at the O2, the atmosphere was crackling and everyone was having a ball. Particularly us. You can't not enjoy yourself. You'd have to be made of stone.
Because, finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Jericho was staggering to his feet after being squashed by Umaga.
"Come on, Jericho!" William shouted. "Get up and whack him!"
"Lamp him, you loser! Give him one!" I yelled.
Next thing, Jericho unleashed the Lion-sault, hurled himself in a back-flip off the top rope and knocked his opponent flying. The crowd went berserk.
"This is the most brilliant night out ever," said William. "Come on, Jericho! Kick him! Get him! Yes! He so deserved that. Come on, now stamp on his head!
"This is fine for children. Can we come again soon?"
dailymail.co.uk