Identity Is The Crisis You Can't See

A long time ago, in a media classroom far, far away...

BRAND WARS

[Dramatic music is playing right now]

Okay, the setting is less epic than I would’ve liked, but it’s still a place of interest – for me, at least: a media class, in the college I attended (not naming names, here). It also wasn’t the most well informed classroom I’ve ever been a part of (hence why I’m not naming names) – the teacher, who was trying to lecture to us about Alfred Hitchcock, had never heard of a MacGuffin; now you might’ve never heard of one either, but you’re not being paid to educate me about Hitchcock, are you?

But it was in this media room that the idea of a person as a brand was first mentioned, and it intrigued me. The idea is simple: when you see movie posters that feature the names of the actors of the film prominently, then you’re not simply reading a person’s name, but a brand.  Unknown actors are attempting to establish a new brand, and the known actors are attempting to utilise their own as a stamp of quality.

Since then, I’ve heard people vocalise this concept: “protecting my brand”, “building my brand”, etc. – usually in direct relation to themselves and their perceived career. And once you’ve heard it expressed like that, you realise that people who use this terminology should, at best, be left in a corner to themselves, or, at worst, be beaten around the head and chest with broom handles.

But the divide between the person and the persona is an interesting and existing phenomenon. Who you see on the screen, on the stage, and – as relates to this blog – in the ring, are not potentially who those people are. I don't mean the simple line between fiction and reality, but that place that people like Muhammad Ali occupy: where you're uncertain how much is a reflection of the man and how much is a role being played.

Les Kellett, British wrestling’s best funny man, is a good example of the potential dichotomy between person and persona: had you only ever known Les for his work in the ring, feinting drunkenness, rasping at the referee, and his skill of making any man look like a fool, then you would’ve assumed him to be a good humoured, comic fellow; but had you only ever heard the backstage stories, which included an inhuman ability to absorb punishment and ignore pain, coupled with a moody temperament, and a willingness and talent at psychological intimidation, then you might’ve conceived the Yorkshireman as quite a fearful figure. (I’ve never met the man, but I’ll wager he was neither of these things – at least to the extreme that either side of the perspectives might suggest.)

The point is that people sometimes get carried away with themselves and make character judgements about someone, when they have nothing but second hand stories or performances to go on. People are not brands; and the personas that get built up – either intentionally, or accidentally – may not hold any truth: “One man in his time will play many parts.”

Billy Who?

"Never meet your heroes" is not a piece of advice I agree with. Certainly there are people who you (yes you) have probably built up in your mind so much that there's no way that they could actually live up the expectations you have for them; but I don't think this rule applies one hundred percent of the time.

That being said though, there is one hero of mine, who is probably held so high in my regard because I never met him: Billy Joyce. There's a good chance you haven't heard that name before. If you have, good on you, but I'm going to go into a little bit of history anyway: Billy Joyce was the ring name of Bob Robinson, apparently one of the greatest wrestlers of all time. When I say apparently, it's because - aside form never meeting the man - I have never actually seen Mr Joyce wrestle. I have only heard stories from the old time Wigan wrestlers, who described a genius of the craft. This craft was catch-as-catch-can wrestling.

The two most prominent names that I heard of coming from the infamous, original snake pit gym, in Wigan, were Billy Robinson and Karl Gotch. It is primarily because of their influence on professional wrestling that I knew their stories. And it wasn't until a year or so of actually training and learning about the history that I heard the name Billy Joyce, or "Bob Robby", mentioned. So imagine my surprise when I hear of the heavyweight Gotch, who even after years of training, was toyed with, by the significantly smaller Joyce. "He'd let you arm drag him, and you'd end up pulling him onto your leg."

The legend of a man who was the epitome of the idea of grappling being a game of human chess, was built up in my mind. Never the biggest, strongest, nor fastest, here was a man that simply outwrestled everyone. But it's not solely because of that that I consider him a hero; the biggest influence on the legend, for me, was a story I heard from the other big man, Billy Robinson:

"I asked Billy Riley, my trainer, who was the worst student you ever had? And he said without a doubt it was Billy Joyce. He would come week in and week out, and he was just terrible. Could barely teach him a thing. Until one day it all clicked, and he started timing his moves, countering people, knowing his set ups, and beating everyone. But it took him years to get there."

That's not word for word, as it's from memory, but the gist of it is there.

Because I've never met this man, and I've never seen him go to work on the mats, I have only my imagination, fueled by the stories of others. If I'd have met him, or actually had the chance to witness his wrestling, I don't think the legend would live up. This is the story of someone who was not a natural born genius, who, from the first moment of being on those horse hair mats, knew what he was doing. This was the worst student they'd ever had, who simply worked at it. That kind of story gives me hope.

The Thing I Hate The Most

There are plenty of things to hate having to deal with, as a pro wrestler: the travel, having no toilets in a changing room, having no changing rooms to speak of, "bookers", venues that don't have a shower - there's enough things to make any man mentioning them sound like a diva having a fit. But there's one thing I truly hate having to do more than anything else, and that's walk through the curtain to the ring. Once I'm in the ring there's (usually) nothing to worry about, and waiting backstage very rarely produces problems, but the transition between the two is typically the hardest part of my night.

Right before my matches I make sure I've warmed up properly, and my muscles are loose, before preparing myself for the time where I have to cross the clothed threshold. In these minutes, I don't like talking to people; I just keep my head down and pace the same spot over and over again. I'm not entirely sure why that moment is the toughest for me, but I think it's something to do with considering it a point of no return; more than once I've heard my music start and thought about making a run for it.

It's ridiculous when you think about it too, as I'm about to be slammed around a ring, forearmed in the head, and stomped on, yet it's the act of walking to the aforementioned ring that turns my stomach into a butterfly collector. And no matter how many times I rationalise it to myself, making the point that I've done it a few hundred times before and that nothing horrible has happened so far, there is a zero percent improvement in my disposition when I hear the opening chords of whatever is playing for me on that night.

On the bright side of things, if walking through a curtain is the worse thing that I have to regularly deal with, I think I'm doing pretty good - lifestyle wise.

Sitting Here In Silence

Pro wrestling documentaries conform to one of three narratives: the first two are character focused; either a career beginning or ending, that promises a bright future, or reveals a dark past; with the third primarily concerned with the representation of wrestling - usually this is a discussion of how "fake" wrestling is supposed to be, juxtaposed against the real injuries sustained whilst in the ring.

Maybe I'm simply too cynical to enjoy people living out their bright futures in front of a camera crew; I know I get no pleasure in watching their nightmares take over, either; and I find the question of how "fake" wrestling is, to be a tired one that doesn't really need to be addressed again.

I don't like wrestling documentaries. That is, I don't like the majority. GAEA Girls [by Kim Longinotto and Jano Williams] is the exception. Although the structure of the narrative is not an unfamiliar one, telling the story of a group of trainee wrestlers, all looking to make a name for themselves, with one girl - Saika Takeuchi - taking up the role of the main character, it is the way in which the story is told, that is important.

For those of you that don't know (shame on you) GAEA was a Japanese wrestling company with an all women roster. The trainees in this documentary are those of Chigusa Nagayo, who's one of the owners of GAEA, as well as a well established wrestler in her own right.

The reason why this is one of my favourite documentaries is for something that I didn't even notice, until someone pointed it out. I didn't notice it because it wasn't there - a voice over. There are interviews with the trainers, with the trainees, with the families, but no voice over and no score from the filmmakers telling you - implicitly - how to feel. Because of this, I've heard a variety of reactions to the movie. Certainly, there are repeat opinions, but there're also minor and major contrasts in them, too. You never really know how someone's going to take to it.

I actually don't want to go any further in describing it, for the simple reason that I'd hate to turn this into some form of commentary. This film is supposed to be stark; it's supposed to have those unsettling, quiet moments.

If you're training to become a wrestler, or are just considering it, watch this film!


GAEA Girls can be found on Youtube, but, if you like it, buy the DVD off Amazon and support some good art.

Feminism, WOW! (part 2)

Part 1 Recap:

Women who wrestle face a specific problem, when it comes to representation: "the male gaze". Typically, "the male gaze" refers to the theory that mainstream media is presented through the perspective of a heterosexual male. In wrestling, the "gaze" also extends to other factors - such as nationality - but, for now, our focus is on gender identity.

Click here for part one.

Part 2: Suffragette City

Because the typical wrestling fan is believed to be male, and therefore the typical wrestler is believed to me male too, women have always been designated as a "special attraction" i.e. different from the norm. The male gaze exists in media for a business reason; those who are believed to be most likely to spend their money on a product will be targeted, by attempting to present to them things that are believed to conform to their beliefs and values. Similarities and differences are highlighted and exploited, and little is ever challenged.

Now, as a business model, you might argue that this is a logical approach; you attract the majority, in an attempt to earn the most. However, the typical gaze of a wrestling show is so very limited that monetary justification is not a strong counter position. Members of the audience might even turn away by the handling of intergender relations.

If you are a woman in wrestling you have one of four roles to fulfil:

1. The Diva - The object of sexual desire. Plays up to her looks
2. The Prude - The opposite of the Diva, in that she scorns the objectification of women.
3. The Subvert - The woman in the masculine role. Typically taken up by the more muscular women.
4. The Wrestler - Gender neutral. Just a wrestler.

Having been trained with women, wrestled a few, and even dated one or two, I've heard one phrase repeated: "I'm not a girl, I'm a wrestler!" This is usually shouted at timid male trainees who have a hard time overcoming the perceived social stigma of bodyslamming a woman. It's also a very telling phrase.

In the above four roles, only two can be said to be explicitly female - the Diva and the Prude. The Subvert plays the role of a man - she's considered interesting because she's subverting the gender roles and not acting as a woman should. And the Wrestler is not assigned a sexual identity - the importance is placed on the moves performed, which carry no gender bias. Only the Diva and the Prude are overtly feminine roles, and what do they have in common? Sex. Or, more specifically, objectification and sexual desire - one is for and one is against.

This is why some women do not want to be identified as such, within wrestling; because the woman in wrestling is only ever presented as a sexual object. Perhaps it's a greater commentary on how men are believed to perceive women - the Madonna and the harlot - but doesn't that make men sound like a Freudian nightmare?

I've always taken to the belief that the best wrestling shows - the true supershows - are the ones that have something for everyone. Normally, this is considered as choices in wrestling styles, but what of wrestling philosophies? I'm of no doubt that some men can only relate to women in sexual terms, but why does an entire show have to be targeted at them? Give them one or two matches, then show me something in a perspective I've never seen before. Maybe I won't even enjoy that perspective, but, you know what? I'm not the biggest fan of Lucha, either.

Feminism, WOW! (Part 1)

I don't think women's wrestling should exist.

(Interesting remark, let's see where this goes.)

Whenever you talk sexual politics you're in constant danger of appearing as either:
a.) a preachy, left wing, arsehole
or,
b.) a preachy, right wing, arsehole

Right now, I probably appear to be the latter of the two. But I'll do my best to win the feminists back over (hi mum!), as well as make a coherent argument.

Anyone reading this will be predisposed to think one way or another about gender roles. If you're hardline one way or another in your beliefs, then I don't think anything I can say will talk you around; if you tutted at that opening statement, and have only read this far out of spite, or some other misplaced ill will, then this post not for you; if you were roused to a cheer at what you believed to be open misogyny, then this post is also not for you. This post is for simple consideration.

Now that that's out of the way, let's return to the opening line and condense it. Focus on the term "women's wrestling" and really think what that means. Intrinsically, it's sexist. Why? Because of the need to include the modifier "women". When men wrestle it's called "wrestling", when women wrestle it's called "women's wrestling". So? Well, by needing to qualify that it is indeed women wrestling, and not feel that same need to do so when men wrestle, there's the implication that the wrestler is a role to be taken up by a man.

Consider the term "male nurse" - it's the same idea. The norm is that "she is a nurse, and he is a male nurse". The implication is that a nurse is job for a woman, and when a man takes up this position it is a break from the norm.

To allow the label of "women's wrestling" to continue, is to preserve the idea that women are, at best, a special attraction i.e. they're not normal wrestlers.

Some promoters boast of having an all women wrestling show, as if this is truly better than the usual cards which limit themselves to one "women's match". Both types of show just prolong the separation of male and female wrestlers, by the continued import of the idea that the gender divide is vast. Men and women are different - clearly. But the difference is only as significant as the difference between weight divisions. Lightweights are not considered to have any more or less claim to being a wrestler than the heavyweights (most of the time, I concede).

The problem is "the male gaze", which is the idea that entertainment is presented to the audience through the perspective of the heterosexual male. Straight men are the main demographic targeted in most forms of media, and wrestling is certainly no exception to this. The "gaze" of a wrestling show presents a vision of a world which attempts to pander to the wants and values of its audience - or the majority of it, at least. Difference is exploited and made apparent, for the sake of entertainment. And being a woman is different to the majority of a wrestling crowd.

What You See & What You Get

There's a classic example, given in philosophy, of the difference between what is perceived and what is true. It's a fairly easy to understand thought experiment, so feel free to follow along at home:

If I was to take a completely straight stick in my hand and look at it, then my sense of sight would inform me of the even nature of the stick's geometry. But once half submerged in water, the refraction of the light creates the appearance of a bent stick.

All this example is highlighting is that our senses can be fooled, and because of this, we should weary of placing all our faith in our perceptions.

There's an obsession of the body in wrestling. It's only natural, considering that the matches are a form of physical expression, but there's this almost unnatural obsession of the ideal body in wrestling. I'm not the first to point this out, but the bodybuilder physique is often considered the ideal aesthetic, and has been for some years. I understand why - the development of the muscles to a comic book proportion is an achievement, and, if nothing else, fascinating - but there's no variation in qualification of what is a good body for wrestling. Bigger is always better.

This isn't a disaffirmation of the bodybuilder as a wrestler, nor as an athlete. Big muscles are an accessory, like a fancy robe to walk to the ring in, or a mask - they're interesting to look at. But if you want to see the best bodies for wrestling, google some images of Cael Sanderson, Aleksandr Karelin, or Marcelo Garcia. All of these men compete in different weight classes, in different sports - freestyle wrestling, greco-roman wrestling, and submission grappling, respectively - yet none conform to the ideal body aesthetic.

The idea that bigger is better is preserved by society, and does not actually originate from the wrestling community. Take the masculine symbols of cinema: violence, phallic imagery, and muscles. The more violence, the bigger the guns, the bigger the muscles, the better. Which is why I'm not here to condemn or even ponder the continuing worship of muscle-bound wrestlers. I actually want to talk about the other form of physique driven obsession - self-obsession.

I think that if you took a cross section of wrestlers, and ran them through some psychiatric tests, then you'd discover alot of them would be suffering from body dysmorphia. Yes, there is a steroid problem in wrestling, but there are also anorexics, and bulemics, and people who simply believe there is a defect in their image and don't know what to do. They all just want to build muscle and loose the fat.

I've sat in changing rooms and seen people spend their entire night flexing in the mirror, doing some exercise, and then returning to the mirror for more flexing. People like this are the ones who become obsessed with getting bigger, put all manner of things I can't spell into their body, and will fervently deny chemical based accusations; others who "just can't get in shape", will go for a day or two, at a time, without a meal; there are people who throw up immediately after eating, because they want abs; and I know someone who came close to killing themselves with diuretics.

Wrestlers believe in the ideal body. It's a necessity to them, not an accessory.

I'm not in the habit of naming and shaming, so I won't begin here. But, I will share with you a story of a not so sympathetic encounter with an image obsessed wrestler:

I have blogged previously that I am a former chubby lad and this story takes place at a time when I was a couple stone heavier than I am now. So, imagine a short, ginger boy, with a little more to love than the average person [massive arse].

It's yet another show, on just another weekend, arriving with a few of the usual suspects of North West English wrestling, and we "do the rounds" i.e. shaking hands and saying hi to everyone who's already there.

A short while later, I've changed into my trunks and boots. I'm awaiting the start of the show, when a wrestler, who've I yet to say introduce myself to, walks up, takes a quick glace at me, and announces "Jesus, you need a tan!" And when I say announces, I mean he deliberately says it loud enough to catch everyone's attention - he even looks around to see if he got a good laugh out of anyone. I'll be honest, I was expecting a handshake and a "pleased to meet you". But I'm used to this type of person, so I respond, simply "why?" He looks a little taken aback, gives it some thought, and - again - announces "cause you're supposed to have one, aren't ya?"

That is the kind of reasoning that reverberates through wrestling. There is a right way and there is a wrong way for people to look. And the pressure to conform is not always implicit.

To Be Someone Must Be A Wonderful Thing

Mass recognition is not good in itself. To argue against celebrity, most people point to the string of reality stars that've appeared in the pop culture over the last few years. These television generated personalities appear to have no notable talent, add nothing positive to society, and are the entertainment equivalent of junk food. However, this is the most obvious target of anti-celebrity attacks. A simpler one - that I'm surprised more people don't mention - is the fact that criminals often become celebrities: Jack the Ripper is close to a modern myth, Charles Manson is a recognisable caricature, and Myra Hindley's image has been reproduced for exhibitions.

All that being said, I actually don't believe fame is bad in itself, either. Jack the Ripper wasn't a bad person because he became famous, it's because he had a habit of killing people. Celebrity is merely a state of affairs, and, the majority of the time, a simple product of good advertising. Celebrity is simple acknowledgement, and nothing more.

It's often believed that you're either going to be a star in wrestling ("superstar" is a copyrighted term), or you're going to be a purist. To put it another way: are you going to be concerned with being famous, or being a good wrestler? If you're going to have the most appeal, then you can't wrestle a style that is esoteric. The mainstream wants easily understood entertainment. This births the romantic notion of appealing to the "real" wrestling fans - the minority of people who'll applaud and become invested in even the most minor of details.

I'm not sorry to dispel this idea, but there is no "real" wrestling fan, just as there is no fake wrestling fan. The closest you'll ever reach to a true fan of the work are the people who've done the work - the people who've been on the mats and swapped sit-outs and switches. The "real" wrestling fan is the wrestler. (I'm fanatical about wrestling, that's why I do it.)

It's the uninitiated that buy the tickets, sit in the seats, and cheer and boo.

You are not automatically a bad wrestler by appealing to the audience. You are not automatically a good wrestler by being unappealing to the mainstream. Business and art are not mutually exclusive, they're independent. And people get bogged down in being different for the sake of being different, to see this sometimes.

Invisible Friends

There's an amazing amount of hubris in wrestling. And by hubris I mean ancient Greek, Oedipus Rex level hybris. There are people who believe that the show begins and ends with themselves. For awhile, I thought that people like this were putting on an outward act of arrogance, in an attempt to get other people to believe them. But it wasn't long before I realised that "oh no, they really believe it, don't they?" It's these people whom I want to mind-jack. It's a mentality that's fascinating - in the same way that documentaries about serial killers are.

In abstract, these type of people are, at best, quaint, comic figures; in person, they're an endurance test.

I actually try to avoid talking about this type of person, most of the time. The simple reason is that they crave attention, and have little misgivings if it's positive or negative - the important thing is that they are being discussed.

Why bring it up here, then? Is this the point in my life where I burn the small bridges that I have in British wrestling? No (I will do that in good time). The important thing to point out is that you - yes, you - are not the sole reason that the show was as good as it was.

This weekend gone, I was reminded how much I owe to people that nobody else notices.

I can't remember where I heard it first, but I've heard it repeated quite a few times: "the sign of a good referee, is that you don't notice he's there". This is true of everyone whose job doesn't involve wearing spandex.

There are so many little things to be done, on even the smallest of shows. If these things are done correctly, then nobody will be thanked for a job well done; if something fucks up, then somebody will not hear the end of it. The best example I can think of, is music. Music, for me, is when the match begins and ends. It acts as your introduction and also signals that the referee did, indeed, count three. I hate it when something as simple as music messes up. It makes me want to grab the sound guy, shake him about, and shout "YOU HAD ONE JOB! ONE JOB!"

I've yet to assault any music men, but I've also yet to thank any of them, too. I'm not even sure how they'd react if I did approached them and said "thank you for playing my music correctly". If anything, they'd probably assume I was making fun. So let this be my unspoken nod to everyone who continues to do their job correctly, and type the pleasure, the privilege is mine.

Ideas Man

One of the biggest joys I've had in wrestling, was when another wrestler asked "how did you think that up?" Referencing a maneuver which had me jumping over the top rope, into the ring, catching the back of my fallen opponent, rolling through, and landing in a sleeper hold, with both hooks (or "feet," as they're more widely named) in position. The only thing I could say in response, when asked, was that I'd been taught how to flip an opponent over when you already have control of their back, and that I could visualise it working from a flip into the ring, too. It just made sense.

That being said though, I'm not a real believer in originality. At least, not complete originality. In my - admittedly, somewhat limited - experience, everything worth doing has been done. I mean this fundamentally. Fundamentally, every story is a retelling of the same structure; every hero and villain is a new face on an old archetype; every love song says the same bloody thing. I don't think this is deliberate in every case, either. There're examples of myths, which are all from separate civilisations, which have no known link to one another, that tell parallel stories. All the way to modern day, these stories are retold: the story of Moses follows the same structure as the origin story of Superman,  as well as Harry Potter. (Not joking.) Yes, when we get to specifics, they're universes apart, but fundamentally, they're all the same.

People put such a prize in originality, but never even examine if it's truly possible.

In modern media, people are said to "pay homage" to their favourite works, when there's an explicite allusion to it in their own work. It's gotten to a point now, where the word homage is spoken with a tongue in the cheek, or a roll of the eyes. I've taken to calling it "stealing like an artist" (a phrase I have, indeed, stolen). I don't romanticise the borrowing of ideas. They're taking ideas they like, and putting them in their own voice. And there's nothing wrong with saying it in you're own voice - that's what self expression is.

For example, there came a time when I thought I needed a change in look. (The specifics of why are unimportant.) So, rather than the typical trunks and boots, associated with the technical style of professional wrestling, I opted to take a more modern approach. I designed some Vale Tudo esque shorts, and laced up my amatuer wrestling shoes, for something I thought looked a little more unique - to everyone else, that is.

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

The majority of the look - as you can see - is taken from the Sambo submission wizard, Volk Han. And it gave me a grin, knowing I was parading around in gear that was so explicitly similar. I was showing off my stolen wears, in public, and getting away with it.

I could create a list so numberous, that any respect you may have had for me crumbles away. But if it did, ask why is it that originality has such a weight to it? All I have to give is myself, and I am a subject of my experiences.

One idea I had for a match came from a comic I read; an idea for another, came from a film; a few times, I've used a single line, in a song I like, to anchor my line of reasoning, when I've had to talk on a microphone. All of these things have an origin which is external to me, but they've helped me do or say what I needed to, and I did so in my own voice. The key, is that I expressed myself.

Mr Popularity

There's an internal debate I have, regarding popularity and art: if something is more popular, is it better art? I don't mean, by this, is popularity the only aesthetic quality to draw conclusions from. What I mean is, can popularity be considered one of numberous factors, when judging art? Some days I answer yes, and some days, no.

The argument is often presented in wrestling that the more popular a wrestler is, the better that wrestler must be. I think it's better typified in film, though. For example, the films of Michael Bay are not generally considered to have well developed, deep characters, or plot. But, his films have the appeal of grand spectacle, and have made hundreds of millions of dollars. Now, let's look at another director, in Park Chan-wook. There's a decent chance that you've never heard of this South Korean director. In terms of worldwide recognition, you're going to find more people who've seen Transformers, than Oldboy - there's a high probability that you'll find more people who've seen Transformers, than've even heard of Chan-wook's work.

So, what has this director, whom I'm assuming you've never heard of, made? Plenty, but I'll focus on the above-mentioned film, Oldboy. (We'll go by IMDb information, as we're discussing mass appeal.) Considered one of the top hundred movies made; the highest rated Korean language film; was nominated, and awarded, numerous honours - including recognition at the Cannes film festival; highly praised by Quentin Tarantino; it's worldwide box office gross was a little under fifteen-million dollars. Compare that to the latest Transformers [Dark of the Moon] gross, which was over a thousand million (an American billion) dollars.

As products to be marketed to consumers, there's no comparison. As an expression human existence, there's no comparison.

I am firm in my belief that not all art is for all people. Just because you can't follow Ulysses, doesn't mean it's a bad book (and there's my pretentiousness quota met).

If you've read these ramblings before, you'll realise I have a certain opinion on critics. Now, allow me to express my opinions on audience: sometimes, it's their fault - "it's you, not me."

I'll just let that sit with you.

Taken that in yet? (If not, reread the above.)

Good.

However - allow me to let you in on the parradox - I also assume the audience was never "bad".

Yes, I believe that there are bad audiences, whilst, at the same time, believing that there is no such thing. Why? Because, challenging others never generates self-improvement. But, in believing that it's sometimes the audience's "fault", you remove yourself from blame and it helps with the formation of ideas:

In the cognitive gestation period, the audience is a mere abstract; it's up to them to get "it", and how could they not? You trust in them, and inhibitions fade. When that idea falls flat, you search for everything you could've done differently.

Maybe art isn't for everyone, but can art ever be good in itself?

The idea of art which is good for itself, is something that never sits quite right with me. (Not the most logical of prepositions, I grant you.) I suppose I have a problem with the concept of art which has no audience. There is always a listener for the speaker, even if all you're doing is talking to yourself.

Which leads me back to my intial problem: is popularity a factor when appointing aesthetic value? Not really. This and that is for someone, but the eventual immensity, or modesty, of those someone's doesn't make it any better. At least, that's how I feel today.

Just jump

I remember, before I even started training, I wanted to do the diving headbutt. The gymnastic moves look the coolest, and that's why they're so popular and prominent in modern wrestling. I always imagined it took a true acrobat's balance to springboard; the tope suicida looked ridiculously dangerous; the frog splash was in abundance; the diving headbutt was the way to go, for me. I'm sure I accumulated hours of air time, in my younger years, jumping from the couch onto a pile of stacked pillows, in the living room. Periodically, a parent would peak in a wonder what their son was doing to make such a racket. Inevitably, I would be shouted at, and my antics curbed until the next weekend, where watching the latest episode of Raw would send me right back to the armrest. I'd stand, arms outstretched, ready to swandive, with no promise of a gold medal - an underachieving daredevil.

No one ever taught me how to do a diving headbutt. I always assumed I could do it (the arrogance of youth). So, when the time came for a crash mat to be present in the training ring, I climbed the ropes, with little hesitation, dived off, and landed squarely on, what was essentially, a big blue pillow. We moved the target around the ring, and I easily aimed the jump each time. The furthest I could hit was the middle of the twenty-foot, training ring - which I thought wasn't bad for little, unacrobatic me.

Eventually, of course, we had to take the mat away. The opponent was the target, not the softest part of the ring. The test was if I could still commit to that landing. Armed with nothing but hubris and the knowledge that you had to bring you arms in, to protect your sternum, as you hit, I climbed the ropes and jumped. WHAM! That wasn't so bad - prefered the mat being there, I'm not going to lie, but it wasn't as bad as I was expecting. All it had required was a good jump.

Sometime later - now armed with the diving headbutt, as well as hubris - I asked another person at training how to springboard. The entirety of the instruction I recieved was to push with my arms and jump with my legs. ("That's it?! That's all there is to it?") I honestly don't know what else I was expecting - maybe some secret handshake you did with the ropes, in order to get them to agree to holding you up in the air. But that was, actually, all the instruction I needed. There is an invisible sense of balance and timing involved in the movement, but it's subjective, and only refines through repetition. Just jump.

When my courage had built up enough, I asked about the tope suicida ("the suicide dive" is not an encouraging name, after all). "Get some momentum and jump." Again, that was it. That was all there was, and is, to it.

The phrase "just jump" is still somewhat of a joke, amongst a few of us who trained together: if the subtleties of a specific move escape you, just jump, it'll work itself out. It's actually not that bad a piece of advice, if I'm honest. Sometimes you need that attitude to succeed, even in inconsequential situations.

The Perfect 10

It's often stated that we all love an underdog - and we do - but there's no cliche in place to describe the amazement, or awe, we feel from the perfect record. Underdogs don't score the perfect ten, geniuses do. Dan Gable won an Olympic gold, in freestyle wrestling, without conceding a single point the entire time; Cael Sanderson is undefeated in college wrestling; Dock Ellis (baseball, sorry grapple fans) threw a no-hitter, whilst under the influence of LSD; Rickson Gracie never loses, ever.

Yesterday was the first time I've ever lost in a grappling competition - ruining any future hope I might've had at building that perfect record. I didn't loose out on a major championship, nor was my future welfare, in anyway, compromised, but, for some reason, it really got to me. After the match, I put Kurt Cobain to shame. And it's at a time like that you want to blame everyone else: "if so-and-so would've stopped talking to me beforehand, I could've focused more"; "that person being there made me too tense"; "that girl's my bad luck charm, I never do well with her here". The truth of the matter, though, is that I made mistakes and the other guy was good enough to capitalise on them. That's all. I would've really liked to have blamed someone else, or luck, but I don't believe in luck, or fate, or destiny; the only people you can count on, is yourself and your opponent (and maybe the ref).

The worst part was realising how stupid my approach was, later. I had a few other matches, after the loss, to settle on who'd win the bronze. It's a ridiculous mentality, but I'm a "first or last" sort of guy - there's first place, and there's last place, and nothing inbetween. So, I approached these other matches thinking "what's the point?" Which meant I was loose and limber, seeing the openings, and going to work, properly. I won the bronze. And all I could think of was how tense I'd been approaching the other matches. I hadn't switched off and relaxed. ("Be like water, my friend.") It was a learning experience - which is, really, what competing is supposed to be - but that doesn't make that smudge on my record any more tolerable, right now.

One of the people I beat, on the way to the bronze, blamed the mats for his loss: if he hadn't tripped on the mats, then there's no way I would have submitted him. He was nice enough to find me and tell me this, in a very matter of fact sort of way, after the match. Some people can't accept the loss, and some people can; thankfully, I'm the latter.

P.S.
I actually had an entirely different post half written, before writing this, but putting that up felt like ignoring what I really wanted to talk about. Somedays you need to put your hands up and shout "I fucked up!"

Little boy lost

Before a match, grappling competitions, and even just training, I sort of stop thinking. I say sort of, because I am thinking, I just try to make myself unaware of it - does that make any sense? I hope it does. It's characterised by a stone-faced expression, which some people interpret as boredom, and others as a borderline psychopathic tendency; I've adopted the term "switching off" to describe it. (I suppose it's as close as I get to the "don't think, feel", philosophy of Bruce Lee.)

When I switch off, I don't like talking to people, I just find somewhere to myself, and do my thing. Sometimes I just put a towel on my head, other times I pace up and down, and every now and again I try listening to music.

Lately, I've been listening to music, and there's one track in particular, that's been on loop, these last few weeks: "Fucking in the Bushes" by Oasis. It's a quality song. If anything, most people associate it with Guy Ritchie's film, Snatch, but I don't.

***

Oasis starts shouting out the speakers and the lights start flashing in time with the beat. At this moment I'm fine; it's when I stop to stare at the entrance video that everything changes. It's highlights of all those matches I used to watch, and then, out he comes. Suddenly, I switch on.

"What the fuck am I doing here? Why is Nigel McGuinness walking to the ring?" I start thinking.

I'm here [at New Generation Wrestling, in Hull] because I'm their go-to, if they need someone to wrestle on the mat; Nigel McGuinness is walking to the ring, because I'm booked to face him. I'm having a surreal moment in the ring, to myself, where I feel completely out of place. I start trying to stare off into the middle distance and shut that voice off that's telling me to hop the railing and run. Fucking in the Bushes is playing, and to the ring, walks the man I will always associate with it.

***

In 2004, when I was at the tender age of fourteen, I discovered a company named "Ring of Honor" [sic]. I remember my overabundance of joy, at discovering a completely new roster of styles and characters to obsess over, and Nigel McGuinness was one of those guys. I remember the first match I saw him in: he was in blue trunks, with the Union Flag on the back, and he was facing off against a little wildman man named Jimmy Jacobs (in a weird twist of fate, I vaguely recall the commentators talking about the Wigan Snake Pit, during the match, too). I liked Nigel, because here was a British guy doing, a British-esque style - yes, the sharing of nationality was enough for me to like the guy. It didn't matter that he'd been trained by an American, damn it! He was British! (What a strange mentality I had.)

As time went on, I continued to watch, and eventually started to train. Nigel switched from blue to black, started flicking the V's, and became money with a microphone. Time continued to pass -

***

I'm stood in the ring and I've managed to shut the nagging little voice off, again. The lights are up and Nigel's in the opposite corner to me. This is the only chance I'll get to do this; this is all part of the McGuinness retirement tour. You want to come across as professional, but you want to tell this guy how much you enjoyed everything he's done. He stands in the middle of the ring, with his hand outstretched - that'll always be the "Code of Honor" handsake, to me. The audience doesn't think I'll shake it, but I do. There's this pause, where they don't know what to expect. I sneer and, as clearly as possible with a gumshield in, say "bye-bye Nigel". People actually get angry - this is too easy.

***

This post probably comes as a little late, but it's only recently that I actually knew how to say all this. Self expression is like most things: easy to do, just hard to do well. I've settled for saying this quite well: cheers Nigel, for everything.



(http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/307482471/the-last-of-mcguinness)

Just a wrestler

Okay, so I'm going to start this one with a little section of bragging, but bear with me and, hopefully, this actually becomes readable.

People seem to enjoy my matches. (Whoa! Huge brag, I know.) After doing a post that denounced criticism, why is this even important? Well, it's because wrestlers - people who have actual experience and skill in the act of wrestling - often compliment me on my matches. I hold out no hopes for universal admiration, but appreciation from peers seems to be an attainable goal.

The crux of all this: I don't believe any of it.

I know I'm not incompetent at my part-time, passtime, but I don't think I'm good at it. There was a phrase that I often uttered after matches, so much so that it became a running joke between a few friends: "could've been better." I eventually had to change this habit, because people hear "could've been better" as entirely negative. Implicity, I was saying "it was alright, but it could've been better", but that's not what people hear. (Now I just say "it was alright" as the stock response.)

I don't dwell on negative aspects, in life in general, but I'm still aware of faults and imprecisions, on my own part. So when someone has something positive to say about my work, I'm more amazed they didn't notice all the mistakes I made - which ultimately leads me to conclude they didn't watch the match properly, or they're just lying to be kind.

One day, I come across a speech gave by Neil Gaiman to the graduates of an arts university (if you don't know who Neil Gaiman is, stop reading this now, and, instead, read something by him). He spoke of his own experience creating and progressing through art. It's a great speech, and I found it inspirational, not because there was an amazing writer laying out the metaphor he lived by, but because he spoke of the imposter syndrome:

"The first problem of any kind, of even limited success, is the unshakable conviction that you're getting away with something, and that any moment now they will discover you."

It's when someone says something like that, that you breath a sign of relief, that you didn't even know you had pent up in your chest; you answer the question you'd never even internalised: "Oh, I'm not the only one."

Your friends are too kind and no matter how hard they try to convince you that you're too hard on yourself, you'll always believe they say that because they're you're friends; your enemies are too malign, so you'll never believe them either, really. It's hard to find opinions to trust, with this cognitive conviction.

Where am I now, then? Am I accepting any and all praise I can lay my ears on? No. Am I a manic depressive, who believes every negative I stumble across? No. But there was something I heard about myself, that I actually agree with:

"I don't get the hype about Jack Gallagher, he's just a wrestler."

Yes, that is a quote from another wrestler, and he has no idea I heard it. I'm just a wrestler, and I'm happy with that.

P.S.

I don't get the hype, either.

P.P.S.

For those interested, here's the speech gave by Neil Gaiman: https://vimeo.com/42372767

"Opinions are like arseholes"

There's something I need to come clean about: when I first started wrestling, I would go online and read reviews of my matches -

I hang my head at my naivety.

Before I continue, I want to make it clear, I'm going to try and write this in the most positive and least preachy way possible; people get angry when you question their opinions.

That's probably the best place to begin: opinions. Some people like to say "opinons are like arseholes, everyone's got one." Now, that's a perfectly valid statement, if not also a backhanded way of insulting people with an opinion you don't approve of. (It's also incredibly overused by people who're trying to be witty.) If you expose yourself to people's opinions of you, or your work, or even the work of others, that you enjoy, then you open yourself up to the experiencing of the negative opinion - the most feared of all opinions. However, you're also potentially going to run into the positive opinion - that oh, so friendly form. The reading of reviews is the game risk, reward that a lot of people play. It also gives rise to the artistic double standard.

Without trying to sound too pretentious, I like to think of what I do as an art form. There is skill involved, but that's not why it's art. To me, art is an expression of being. That's a very basic definition, but it's also going to be the one I'm sticking with for this post; any further elaboration of art and there are the equal dangers of turning this into a dissertation and becoming far more pretentious than a part-time pro wrestler has the right to be. Back to the matter at hand, I think that there is some art in what I do. As an artist, I have an audience, and audiences respond to the art. How people deal with that response, typically, is the double standard: if someone thinks you're good, then you consent to their opinion being valid, and receive an ego boost; if someone thinks you're bad, then they don't know what they're talking about, and you'll probably say something along the lines of "opinions are like arseholes-".

There's a horrible double standard in wrestling where people pick and choose whose opinions are valid, and whose are not, based solely upon how pleasant that person is, with regards to them. I was very guilty of this for quite a few years. Luckily, I'm weird, and my pondering time is spent with such vital questions like "what is a critic and why are they valid?" You can get into long and labourious lines of questioning regarding aesthetics, but really it's a question of skill.

Like I said, skill, alone, does not constitute an art form, but wrestling does require certain skills, regardless. If you are unfamiliar with the skills required, then you are in no position to judge them. You take your car to a mechanic for his opinion on how to fix it, because he has the skills to properly assess the situation; why are artistic forms, which take skill, any different? To me, they aren't. My favourite analogy is this:

"Imagine you're arguing against someone in a foreign language, when all you have is a basic phrase book and the other person is a native speaker."

So I don't read reviews, good or bad, because - and this is the part where you  must remember, I'm just being honest - their opinions don't matter. I care if people are entertained, I care if people feel they got their money's worth, but I can tell these things by the immediate reactions at the shows. I don't care how people theorise that I could improve my skills, nor do I believe them when they try to explain my positive attributes. I probably sound like a right moody git, but you've got to concede, I have a consistent approach.

An Eternal Pessimist

That title is misleading, and deliberately so; I realised that the topics of insomnia and quiting wrestling were sort of downers; they weren't intended to be, but they're personal, and self-reflection can easily read as negative. So, in this post, I'm endeavouring to write about something positive. Or, at least, something that doesn't sound like it was penned by Eeyore.

Think positive, hmmm.

I'm positive I've made some friends in wrestling. I mean actual arrange-to-meet-outside-of-a-wrestling-environment-and-not-just-have-to-talk-about-wrestling-whilst-we're-there-friends. Sometimes it can be hard to find friends like this, because the easy topic of discussion is wrestling - it's a known, shared interest, so why not, right? Because we all do other things in life! Yes, even me.

Wrestling has been a valuable social experience for me, though. I started training when I was 15; being in high school, you're probably at your most neurotic and uncomfortable stage of development, you're surrounded by hundreds of people who're going through the same thing, and you're all imprisioned. Now imagine, on top of all that, you're expected to appear semi-naked, in front of strangers, on a regular basis. That helps you overcome alot of the inherent shyness you might possess. And it did, for me anyway. I was a stooge in brightly coloured spandex and vinyl clothing, with long, shaggy hair, and a tan that'd give Casper the friendly ghost a run for his money; it's hard to take life too seriously when a good portion of your formative years are spent as a harlequin. Don't read me wrong, I'm not an icon of self-confidence and zen-like approach, now, but I definitely overcame alot of those stupid things that can hold you back during adolescence, because of the situations I was finding myself in.

I'm not a club and pub person - I've tried my best, but it's not for me. Some people are, and those social situations probably contributed to their maturation (or, in some cases, the lack thereof). Wrestling was my equivalent. And when I say wrestling, I mean everything that contributes to, and includes, what happens in the ring. In the middle of matches I've cried, swore (too much), laughed, and even had full conversations. Outside the ring, I've made friends, enemies (too many), acquaintances, and even girlfriends.

And you're not limited to the wrestlers you meet through the years; you'll most likely meet their friends and their family, too. You'll meet people who have no interest in wrestling whatsoever, and you'll only have met them through the fact you are a wrestler. A friend of mine, probably through a fear of social stigma, makes sure none of his "real life friends" know he has an interest in wrestling, and when asked, we're to say we met him playing in the local dodgeball league.

Wrestling attracts a whole variety of characters, who'll equip you with stories to tell for the rest of your life. But, really, it's no different - socially - from any other gathering. Some people talk over a game of cards, some get drunk together, some people put on a pair of trunks and boots and bodyslam one another. It's all gay, and I mean that in a totally archaic way.

A Crisis of Faith

So, in my last post I talked about how a culture, or community, breeds familiar experiences amongst its members. This is sort of a continuation of that theme, I guess.

Somedays, I wake up ready to take on the whole world; other days I can't be bothered making the effort of getting up again. It's on those latter days, which are brought about by physical fatigue or ego depletion, I become stoic (or, as an ex-girlfriend used to call it, "being a moody arse"). When you can't be bothered doing anything, nothing is too small an excuse to reframe.

Somedays, I just can't be bothered with wrestling.

Now, everyone will experience that day - probably multiple times - when they just aren't arsed. What I'm talking about are those days you wake up wanting to quit. At least twice a year, since I started wrestling, six years ago, I've seriously considered stopping; usually the feeling stems from frustration at a lack of personal progress, or just a perceived stagnation (I've been told I'm too hard on myself). I can't say this is a universal experience amongst wrestlers, but, as time has gone by, interviews read, and podcasts listened to, I can say that there is a good number of people who have a similar low point.

Imagine putting your hours in, traveling the roads, and even the world, with a constant nag playing in the back of your brain: "Where is the next booking coming from?"; " Do we have enough for the month, yet?"; "What if you get hurt, tonight?" Imagine traveling, full-time, for years on end, and the nag doesn't cease. Instead, a new voice starts; you listen to it and it says "What if this is all you'll ever do? What if you're going to do this routine until the day your body gives out? What're you gonna do as a almost-made-it wrestler?"

Naming no names and looking at no one in particular, I've heard this fear expressed by a number of full-time, professional wrestlers. I'm a part-time wrestler. Due to always being in some form of education (whether higher, middle, or an intermediate stage) I've never been able to fully commit myself to the premise of full-time, professional wrestling employment. I earn money, but enough for food and training costs, I don't live off it. This crisis of faith hasn't occured for me yet, but, I will admit, the precursor to it has been playing about in my psyche: "What if you become that forty something, who never made it? What if all you get out of this is a growing list of injuries? What if you don't even get that far?"

I don't have an answer to these concerns, yet; I'm twenty-two years old, I don't really know anything. I suppose I'll wake up tomorrow morning, feeling a little better, training, and exercising the demons out of the system. They'll be gone for awhile, and when they return, I'll rinse and repeat.

And then the glass shattered...

Cultures breed universal experiences amongst the population. Within hobbies, interests, and jobs, you find yourself integrated into another culture. Amongst some of the professional wrestlers I know, there's the nightmare of being at a show, your music is playing, and you've not got your gear (the equivalent of the turning up to school naked dream, I suppose). Amongst the fans, everyone has their own individual moment that sparked their interest and sent them off to pursue a passion, for as far and wide a scope as they we were willing, or wanting, to take. I still remember the first full wrestling show I watched, because that first show was all it took to hook me.

The people I have to thank - and whom my mum "blames" - is my older sister, and her friends. We'd just gotten Sky. The ability to surf channels and still find nothing worth watching - amazing to an eight-year-old. This rabble of teenage girls came round one Friday, insisting that we watch Sky Sports. There was nothing else worth watching, so we acquiesced to the request.

*click* *click*

 "RAW IS WAR" is on the screen; all red and black with rock music playing.

Over the course of two hours, we're introduced to characters and storylines through a combination of ringside and couchside commentary; most significantly, we were learning who we should be cheering for and who we should be booing. I only really remember the main event, or, more truthfully, I only remember how it ended: an arrogant, corporate sell-out, in a tracksuit, by the name of The Rock (I'm supposed to be booing him), is out in the ring. Next to him, lays a man in a mask that reminds me of a horror film I wasn't allowed to watch at that age; this man is called Mankind (I'm supposed to be cheering him). There's a group brawl at ringside (I'm supposed to be booing and cheering these men in equal measure). The camera shot is pulled back, framing both the men in the ring, and the men fighting on the outside; all of this backgrounded by a sea of people. But only for an instant. Then the glass shattered. And the mass of humanity, that was nothing more than background a few seconds ago, erupts into life. A man I'd never seen before walks to the ring, hits The Rock with a steel chair, puts Mankind on top of him, and walks out. "1! 2!" - that last second always seems to hang in the air - "3!" Everyone on the television is jumping up and down with joy. Everyone in a little living room in England is doing the same.

It's one of those moments I still play over in my head sometimes. And, reflecting on it, it's such a strange starting point for everything that followed. The three main players in this were: an over-the-top sports entertainer, who'd taken cockiness to the level of abandoning the first-person pronoun; a hardcore icon, who'd gained infamy in Japanese deathmatches; and a beer swilling, finger flipping, brawler, redneck. This trinity sent me off into the wild world occupied by Tiger Mask's and Dynamite Kid's; the New Japan Strong Style and the All Japan King's Road Style; the graceful El Santo and the technical Johnny Saint; the amazing joshi and the serious shoot style. It's a wonderful world out there, if you're willing to take a look around.

Sleepless in the Second City

I have a little more free time now, so I'm endeavoring to actually start writing things in this damned blog. That being said, I previously was held back by two things: time and inspiration; I say inspiration, what I actually mean is that I was running out of interesting things to say (this is, of course, assuming I had something interesting to say in the first place). I'm not claiming to have suddenly been struck by the muse of blogging, again. Rather, I'm going to brute force ideas from my memory and try my best to make them read, at least somewhat, stimulating.

[Suggested background music for this post: "I wish I was skinny" by The Boo Radleys]

"Wishin’ I was skinny
Wishin’ that the whole world knew my name
Wishin’ I was thrillin’..."

There was a point in time when I weighed two and a half stone heavier than I do now - for a short time, it was three. I was a chubby kid. I grew up as a chubby kid, into a chubby teen. As a chubby teen, I debuted as a pro 'rassler. I remained chubby for sometime after that. Then, apparently overnight, I dropped to a single digit body fat percentage, and lost, somewhere in the region of, six inches, from my waist. How? Very unhealthily.

Now, I never thought this would need stating, but I have never taken steroids, growth hormone, fat burners, or any other substance. Some people will've just read that and said "of course you've not, you skinny pillock". But I've been accused enough times now, to know that there is a percentage of people who don't believe me, too.

The boy on the left is more-to-love-version of Jack Gallagher; the boy on the right is the Jack Gallagher that people're more familiar with, these days.

The picture on the left is where this story begins. That kneepadded, badly beardly, vision, was captured around the time I was dealing with insomnia. When that picture was taken, I'd come off an entire hour of sleep, from the night before; the day before that, I'd probably slept around three hours - maximum. Now, I've been quite fortunate, in that, I don't have to deal with bad things very often, in life. However, when something serious turns up, my body's reaction is to not switch off. There came a time when I could not sleep properly. I tried everything, with the exception of sleeping medication; I could not sleep more than five hours, for many months on end. My reaction? "If it won't turn off, I'll make it crash". And I began to exercise like a madman.

I would be awake around sunrise, and immediately go for a thirty, to forty minute run; I'd eat; I'd go to the gym; I'd do an hour to an hour and a half at the gym; I'd eat again; I'd have a few hours of university or wrestling, depending on the day, and then I'd be back in the gym for another session; I'd go home, and eat; then I'd do bodyweight exercises until I couldn't. This was my daily schedule, for many months (yes, when possible, I worked seven days a week, three to four times a day). Over those months, I would begin to actively seek out new routines, and exercise advice, in an attempt to find better, and faster ways to exhaust myself. This lead me to rediscovering my childhood hero worship of Bruce Lee. I read up on how he developed exercise routines, which lead me to see how he evolved his diet to match the needs of his body. I changed the way I ate, and began thinking about why I was doing certain exercises, rather than mindless following a template, that I can't even remember how I came across, now.

Through all this, I never looked up the importance of resting, because I couldn't rest; or, I didn't think I could. People I was training with remarked how much I was changing, physically, and I felt good. I'd like to say that the spirit was willing, and that the body was weak, but the truth was, the spirit was stubborn. The moment of realisation came when I was training at the Snake Pit and I was being tossed around - easily. If you laid a hand on my head or neck, and applied a little strength, then I would drop, and I wouldn't be able to do anything about it. My movement was slow and my reaction time was lagging by about a week. I was shaking, walking off the mat, at the end of the session.

The exercising had become a suicide attempt. I was trying so hard to put myself to sleep, I almost completely burnt myself out. I began training less. I began resting more. I eased up on my dieting. I didn't suddenly gain all the weight again and loose all the muscle. I relaxed.

I'd like to believe I'm still a hard worker, just a much smarter one, now. Despite not killing myself with training, I am, without a doubt, stronger, and faster, and the most energised, that I have ever been in my life. What's more, it's maintainable. I'm still toying with things, and changing routines, and switching food choices, because there's always something new to be done, or old, to be revisited. Only now, there's sleep to be had, too.

Cast No Shadow

So it's been awhile since my last blog. I'm not going to lie, it's going to be awhile til my next one. Today though, I need to vent. Not anger or sadness or frustration; if anything, I'm sort of numb - it's surreal. I haven't blogged in sometime now because I haven't had anything to say. I'm not sure if I even do now, but I want to share a story with you.


It was just another wrestling event in Macclesfield. It was FutureShock Wrestling #25 (retro-actively named, as this was prior to us having numbers on the shows) and we were trying out a one time tournament concept: the FutureShock Lotto-Thunder! What a name. Essentially, it worked like this: there were eight wrestlers, there was to be a series of single elimination, one-on-one matches, and the winner of which was to become number one contender to the title. Doesn't sound too unique until you factor in that the tournament brackets would be drawn up at random, and on the spot. There was no magic trick to this. There was no plant in the crowd who knew what name to pick, or any other shenanigans. We were playing this one straight. Pieces of paper - each with a single name of a wrestler - were in a box, a fan would draw one name from this box, that wrestler would make his entrance, a second name would be drawn, that wrestler would make his entrance, and thus the match is made. Both the first and second rounds were done this way.

This was one of the first times I was put in a major(ish) singles match role. Previously all my work had been tag team orientated. However, in the lead up to the tournament, someone couldn't make it (I honestly don't even remember who now) and I was selected to fill in. This was like trial by fire: prove your worth without that tag partner carrying you with little to no time to prepare - shit.

The first match. I didn't envy those guys. The first two out in a brand new concept. They were litmus test for if this idea was going to work or not. A name is drawn - it's the champ, the former champ. He's just lost his title, he's just come off the longest multi-company winning streak (still to be matched) in British wrestling, and he's the first one out there. A pause - what're they waiting for? They're bloody faffing about with the box. Just pick a name!

"Jack Toxic!" -

Shit.

At FutureShock's training school I was trained by two people. I'm now looking at one of them from across the ring and the bell's about to sound. Neither of us are fan favourites; double thumb to the eye - we're both blind; chop exchange - he hits harder; forearm smashes - I'm actually seeing spots now; I'm on my back and he's punching me square in the face - alot; the bell sounds again; DQ'd for illegal strikes; I survive. I think I won too.


That's the only time I got to go one-on-one with the champ, the leader of the den. It wasn't an epic, it probably wasn't even that good, it was probably the closest I've come to leaving the ring with a black eye, and was the closest I've come to being knocked out. It's not a bad memory though.


It's weird how some people create this identity in your head and, no matter what changes, there's always this recurring idea of the who and what they are to you. Champs wear suits, announce when they leave & arrive, they take their god damn time on their entrance if they deem it so, and always have the choicest ring jackets.

I don't have anything else to say. No poignant sentences to wrap it all up nicely and leave you with a smile on your face. I'm sorry; I'm sorry about all of this. They're playing my music -

Shit.