That’s right. A concept album. About wrestling. Listen:
‘Uncle’ George (not a real uncle – you know, one of those people who your Mum and Dad made you call Uncle or Auntie, because they’re good mates with them) ran the wrestling at Huddersfield Town Hall in the early 1970s, and I’d get taken along to watch the greats Half-Nelson and Boston Crab each other to death. It seemed so glamorous (I’m not kidding). My Mum and Dad would be done up to the nines, my hair would have been made into ringlets like Lena Zavaroni (always a sign we were going somewhere swanky). Backstage would involve saying hello to whoever was working up a sweat in their Speedos that evening.
Extensive investigative research (extensive investigative research = me, Mum, laughing over a Sunday Roast last week, her regaling me with various tales) has revealed that we were ringside regulars. My favourite two wrestlers were Bert Royal and Vic Faulkner, a tag team. I absolutely loved Bert Royal, possibly my first sporting crush (closely followed by the boxer Alan Minter):
First love - Bert. A middle-aged man in underpants.
Second love - Alan. Handsome man in boxer shorts - I still think he's gorgeous.
I met Kendo Nagasaki, the masked fighter, and his hilarious manager, Gorgeous George (now immortalised by Mr. Haines). There was Cry Baby (Jim Breaks) – my Dad couldn’t stand him. Sadly, I never got to meet either of the Big Two – Giant Haystacks or Big Daddy (my Sister met Big Daddy - I have wrestler envy). Watch this clip - honestly, it's superb - I am almost crying - the commentary, Steve Logan's legs, everything about Gorgeous George, the theatrics - priceless entertainment:
I did have a memorable incident with the other most famous British wrestler of the time – Mick McManus. As he was sitting around after his bout, ‘Uncle’ George and Mum took me over to meet Mick. Mick picked me up and sat me on his knee. And I promptly started blubbing, saying out loud “I don’t like his ears, they're horrible”. Mick McManus was famous for having cauliflower ears, and couldn’t stand them being touched when he wrestled. This absolutely cracks me up, and my Mum has me in stitches when she tells the story. I threw a proper fit. He’d probably just chucked some pot-bellied grown man around in his underpants for twenty minutes, then having a nice rest, he gets some snotty little brat pointing out that his lugholes are a bit unattractive. Poor Mick.
He was a broken man after I'd finished with him.
(Postscript: I've had a further coincidence involving Luke Haines. Towards the end of his excellent book, he revealed that The Auteurs appeared reluctantly on the pilot for the Chris Evans egofest that was TFI Friday. The passage tells of his experience recording the show, culminating in the moment when, standing at the faux-bar run by the faux-landlord in the television studio (remember?), Evans calls across the bar to offer Luke a drink:
"Evans beckons again. 'Drink?' It's a do-or-die situation. I take the latter option. I look him in the eye across the bar and slowly and deliberately mouth two words at him: 'Fuck. You.' And then: 'Cunt.' It's an afterthought, and it registers. He half smiles and walks out of my eye line. He knows."
Blondie and I appeared on the same pilot show. On a buying trip to London Town, we were wandering down Oxford Street early one Monday, when we spotted Danny Baker loitering in Topshop's doorway. "Sniffin' Glue!" we called out, which made him look round - it was an early punk fanzine he wrote for in the 1970s. He came out to chat, then asked if we'd like to be filmed whilst being told a joke by the Ginger One for a new TV show he's making. We agreed, because we're nothing if not open to suggestion, me and Blondie. Carrot Top appears - he is very tall and rather a charmer (not to be confused with 'charming'). He tells his joke, as he holds up a large cardboard tray of eggs "What's the difference between this tray of eggs and the English cricket team? This tray of eggs haven't been beaten yet.". Dreadful. I thumbed towards Evans, and said "he's a funny man" whilst rolling my eyes. Blondie was meanwhile putting her tongue firmly in her cheek, glancing slyly to camera. Our finest hour. When the show aired on the Friday evening, we were local heroes, and "he's a funny man" became a catchphrase. I don't think we'd have gotten away with "Fuck. You. Cunt." Hats off to Luke Haines for top potty mouthing.)
