I went on this first date some years ago in a pub where the heating was broken. We both sat there, in our coats and scarves, and tried to get to know each other. It wasn’t great and it wasn’t terrible; we left after a couple of drinks, didn’t kiss, and didn’t see each other again. Would the outcome have been different if we’d ended up somewhere warmer?
I thought of that evening as the music pumped into my ears and I did my best to ignore the faint smell of sweat around me. People were clapping, shouting and drinking beer, and the songs were both aggressive and needlessly loud. We were in Camden Town and it was 3pm on the dot, on a Sunday. I wasn’t having a good time.
It was always going to be a coin toss, I knew that. That’s what friends had told me: they assumed that I’d end watching professional wrestling at some point and that I’d either love it or hate it, with no in-between. God, I hated it.
There was something frustratingly tantric about them throwing themselves at each other but never landing an actual punch
Obviously, I knew the fighting was fake but, I guess, I expected it to feel impressive. Instead, I just found it irksome. It annoyed me to watch two grown men play-fight. There was something frustratingly tantric about them throwing themselves at each other but never landing an actual punch, and instead rolling around on the floor or hitting the ropes, howling in mock pain.
Mostly, I watched and tried to ignore this urge I could feel rising inside of me. I wanted to climb into the ring and hit one of them, in their real face, with my real fists and my real feet. I wanted some actual fighting to happen. Watching wrestling made me thirsty for blood. That is, for the avoidance of doubt, not a side of myself I’m especially acquainted with, but what can I say? Sometimes, too much fat-free food makes you yearn for the real thing.
I also wonder if the audience made it worse. Watching pro wrestling live means being part of the spectacle; cheering when the “good” guy “lands” a “punch”, booing when the “bad” guy looks like he may “win”. At the beginning, I found it vaguely endearing, and akin to punk panto. It got tired quickly. Within minutes, I found myself wanting to – ironically – punch the people around me too, or at least ask them if, perhaps, they were seven-year-olds in disguise. Couldn’t they tell none of it was even a little bit real? Did they not care? How could they not care?
Of course, I was the problem and they weren’t. I felt like that one slightly older kid who’s recently aged out of playing pretend, and who rolls their eyes as their peers act out grand stories of dragons and princesses. Do you know what those slightly younger kids have in common, though? They’re all having a great time together, using intricate spells and great big swords to vanquish the baddies. There’s no profound joy to be found in being the only one unwilling to leave the real world behind.
Still, I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t get it! It was the middle of the afternoon and I was revoltingly sober and I’d had to walk through a sea of tourists to get to the venue and there was no magic in my heart. Maybe, on a different day, things would have been different, but does that really matter? If my grandmother had wheels, she’d probably be halfway to Japan by now. I watched wrestling and I loathed it. It is what it is.
Photograph by Progress Wrestling/ Facebook