by Bernard Ross
All was silent.
Slowly, and with infinite menace, the policemen executed a perfect “About Turn”, taking a half pace to the rear as he did so. At first we couldn’t see his eyes since we were so close the brim of his helmet hid them, but his face did not show a happy or smiling countenance. Slowly he tipped his head back and his eyes came into view. He stared malevolently at me and then, like a gun turret slowly traversing, he swung his head to his left and locked eyes with Mal. Mal stared back and then just cracked a massive grin. Colour began to rise from the copper’s tight military style collar and rapidly his face took on a hue that suggested that either he was about to burst a blood vessel or that we might well be facing a very nasty night in the cells. Then suddenly the copper just burst out laughing. He really was like one of ‘The Laughing Policeman” automata you see on seaside piers. I never found out whether Mal knew the copper and that was the reason for his allowance of this insolence, but suffice to say that in the late 50s you didn’t disrespect a copper unless you wanted life to be pretty unpleasant for a considerable while.
Chapter 24
He’s A Bleedin’ Marvel
A few hours later we arrived at the show ground in Canterbury and began the build- up. The weather was fine and clear and the job, which I had seen before but never been involved in, was a clock-work like flow process of beauty and economy. It took us barely three hours to have the whole show erected and tested and ready to go. I couldn’t help noticing the sweat stained and labouring Mr Rose, Mr Charles, Don and Charlie still working hard on the Waltzer; in spite of it being the opening fair of the season they still had a couple of hours to go. Mine’s a pint please landlord!
Mal was in the bar with Brady and the rest of the fighting crew, over the next several pints he chatted and regaled us with stories of the show, town halls that he had fought in and incidents on the road. I was dying to find out who I’d be fighting the next day, how many rounds I was to ‘choose’ and which of us was to be allocated the honour of winning. None of this was so much as mentioned and, as the new boy I was reluctant to raise the subject.
The rather attractive barmaid called last orders and still I remained in ignorance of the plan.
The landlord called time and we drained our glasses and headed back to the fair site. Still I had no idea what the morrow would hold.
As we approached the show ground, Mal smacked his hands together and said, “Right boys, to business!”
The chaps formed a small circle around Mal and he quickly and quietly reeled off a list of brief instructions. These included his decisions as to who was masking up and who were the challengers, how many rounds were to be chosen and who was to win in which round.
I was to go in the first bout as the challenger and I’d be fighting Brady, it was to be the four round bout and Brady was to drop me to the canvas and defeat me in the third round. Simple.
Later Brady told me the reason for not mentioning it in the pub; to avoid anyone overhearing and therefore to keep up the façade that the fights were genuine and that I was actually a member of the public.
There were two small sections at the front and back of the body of the Mammoth, either side of the stage, and these were the changing rooms for the two challengers at the show. They doubled up as the fighters’ bedrooms when we were on the road. By modern standards it was rather cramped there were three of us in each room and the rooms were about nine foot by nine and usually had quite a lot of show paraphernalia stuffed in there as well. Brady, Irish Mick and I shared one whilst the rest of the team dossed down in the other.
That night sleep was a long time coming. I was used to jumping on and off the moving Waltzer and living dangerously about the machinery but tomorrow night I was going to appear in public! I was going to be the centre of attention; everyone would be looking at me. And I was going to be faking it! Oh God, what have I let myself in for?
The following evening I went down the pub and had a few doses of Dutch courage to steady my nerves, then I wandered as nonchalantly as I could over to the fairground. I wandered around the rides and the side stuff until I heard Mal begin to “tell the tale” over the PA at which point I slowly made my way to my appointment with fear.
When Mal called for a challenger I resisted volunteering too quickly; Brady had instructed me that it was better not to appear too keen as that might make me look like a plant, and although the public was clearly wise to the fakery in professional wrestling, most people were taken in by the realism of the travelling shows. The first volunteer tried to climb the steps but Mal stopped him, asking him to allow other challengers to the opportunity to win their prize. This may have seemed odd but this fellow must have stood six foot eight in his stockinged feet and was as wide as he was tall. He would have dwarfed Brady’s five-foot-and-a-fag- paper height and his forearms were thicker than Bray’s thighs. Mal claimed that if he accepted this chap as a challenger the public would be lynch him as the bout would be over before it started....no, he needed a more matched opponent. The next volunteer who caught Mal’s eye can’t have been more than 15 and he seriously looked as if all the women would want to take him home with them; if only to give the poor lad a square meal. No, said Mal, this lad couldn’t be expected to have a chance against a professional opponent with ten years experience in the ring after five hardening years underground working day in day out with shovel and pick.
Finally Mal seemed to notice me and called me forward so he could take a look at me. At six foot I had a good seven inch height advantage and the last couple of years had given me a lean and muscled physique. Yes, I was young, but I looked as if I could take care of myself...Mal asked the crowd if I looked like a good man to have covering your back in an alley on a dark night, and there was a general murmur of agreement. So I was chosen.
Mounting the steps to stand next to Mal I agreed to a four round bout of three minutes per round and then stood to one side whilst Mal began looking for the next challenger.
I was calming down now, though I desperately wanted to catch Bray’s eye for a look of support. I daren’t and he was still drumming on the speed-ball and, in what seemed like seconds, Mal had another challenger standing next to him. I was stunned to see that it was the giant who had volunteered for the first bout. Half my mind thought that Mal had made a major error or had been bamboozled, but the other half knew that he was far too clever to get caught out with something like that.
We went to our separate dressing rooms and I donned trunks and boots that looked as if they fitted vaguely but weren’t so good a fit as to look out of place with the plucky-young- member-of-the-public routine.
Mal and the non fighting crew moved the punters over the stage and into the tent, relieving each one of a half a crown as they went. Once all the people were congregated around the three sides of the ring (leaving a narrow walk way between the ropes and the changing rooms, Mal climbed up onto the stage.
Firstly, he introduced Brady under his stage name of ‘The Miner’ and gave him a build up as a hard man to beat. Bray walked out onto the stage to a combined response of whoops and catcalls. He took a bow and then stepped to one side. Mal now introduced me as the plucky challenger, reminding the crowd and yours truly that all I had to do was go the four round distance without any falls or submissions, to win my prize. I am ashamed to say that the applause of the audience went to my head! I pranced around the ring waving my hands in the air and lapping up the apparent adulation of the audience, most of whom were old enough to be my mum. The few eligible girls present were clinging on to their escort’s arms so this bout wasn’t going to do my love life any good, that’s for certain.
Mal said a few words about the rules and then the bell rang and I rushed at Bray with all the apparent enthusiasm and naivety of youth. Needless to say he simply threw me to the ground. He made a show of being a good sport and not pinning me there and then, but he did it with such aplomb tha
t it didn’t look as if he was cheating, just giving me the chance not to look a complete plonker by losing before the bloody bell had finished ringing.
I got to my feet and took a stance and before I could blink he rushed at me, throwing his arms around me, grabbing the back of my trunks and lifting me off the canvas. My testicles nearly made contact with the top of my scalp and in desperation I grabbed at Bray’s trunks. Bray deliberately toppled forward, dropping us in a tight embrace, onto the ropes. We bounced off the ropes, rolling sideways and landed, still in our clinch, with Bray on his back and me on top. Before I could take advantage of this position, had squirmed out and was off across the ring dragging me by my left foot. I kicked out with my right foot and connected with his hands causing him to release his grip and yell out in pain. He retreated into the corner, nursing his left wrist and glaring at me through his mask. I scrabbled to my feet, not quite certain whether I had genuinely hurt him or whether he was acting. In either case I was quite proud of the manouevre and rather pleased with myself. We circled for a few second before Bray launched himself forward in a drop kick, feinting to the left I took the blow from his two boot soles on my right shoulder and the momentum threw me across the ring whilst spinning me. I managed to stumble still on my feet but my face caught a glancing blow on the cushioned corner-post. There was a loud squeak as my nose and cheek skidded across the leather covering of the horse-hair filled pad, and as I whipped myself around to face my adversary there was a spray of crimson, frothy blood from my nose that arced out of the ring and anointed the front row on that side with a fine and gentle mist.
For the last fifteen seconds of the round, Bray and I grappled and grunted in an increasing smearing of my blood. The crowd were wilder for the smattering of the red stuff and every time Bray seemed to have the upper hand there was a noticeable growl. Every time I broke or planted one on him, they bayed in delight.
Then the bell rang.
The second round was now clearly a grudge match. I was still bleeding quite profusely, but, thank God, painlessly, from my nose and this seemed to generate a surprising amount of emotional reaction from the crowd. As this round went on I became increasingly tired and slow whilst Brad remained implacably compos mentis. That is not to say that it all went his way; I still managed to floor him twice, though with how much help from him, I never really knew. Eventually the bell rang again and I was glad to sit for a few seconds and suck in a draft of water, spit it out and clear the blood clot from my nostrils.
Round three: with the blood clot cleared the bleeding started afresh. My word! A small amount of blood goes a heck of a long way! Half a minute into the round my face and chest were covered with a fresh slathering and the canvas floor of the ring looked like the Jackson Pollock he never painted; “The Slaughter”, (Blood on Canvas, 14’x14’) . At some time in that round Brad dropped me to the floor and pinned me down. Mal counted me out..
The crowd was not happy.
Mal formally raised Brad’s hand, declaring him the winner of the bout and then held up his hands for quiet.
“Ladies and gentleman, our challenger forfeits the right to his purse, but if you would like to make a small donation to him, I’ll ask him to take a collection on his behalf...” at this point he gestured to two of the lads, who took my bloodstained towel from around my neck and carried it by the four corners as if they were about to fold it.
“....but let’s hear a round of applause for our gallant challenger!”
There was a wild round of clapping and whistling and a steady clinking of the coppers and silver landing in the towel.
I was then escorted from the stage to the changing room where I cleaned myself up, got dressed and tied the towel into a tight package with the money sealed up inside it. Then I retired to the pub across the road.
Later, after the fair had closed, I went back to the guys in the tent. Mal sent two fellows out to collect the towels, mine and the other challenger’s and the money was poured out onto the floor of the ring and Mal and his elder two girls counted it all out. This collection money was referred to as the “nobbings” and was divided equally between the fighters regardless of who had won or lost or who had lasted more rounds. Mal gave me special praise as nobbings were always better in the presence of a goodly quantity of blood and I had been the chief provider that day.
Who was that other challenger though? I’d never met the man before; I’m sure I’d have remembered him. It transpired that Mal kept a little black book of semi professional and professional wrestlers who he knew. He would contact these guys at random and get them to come to the fair if we needed new faces, regardless of where we were appearing. Sometimes they appeared as the masked “house” wrestlers but if acting as challengers, he made sure to take them away from any area where they might be recognized, but as wrestling on mainstream TV was still four years in the future this was not too difficult.
Chapter 25
It Takes All Sorts
The guys who worked the wrestling ring came from a varied background and represented a pretty wide range of characteristics. Bray was generally a quiet and thinking man albeit as hard as nails. Yours truly was....well, you have probably got the measure of me by now. The giant I’ve already mentioned was a shipyard worker from Newcastle who wrestled in his spare time for a bit of extra cash but mostly for the fun of it. We also had a fellow by the name of George who was exactly the opposite of the stereotypical fighter. George was about six foot two and really fancied himself as an upper-class ladies man. He was clearly well educated and spoke with received pronunciation, not quite as plummy as a 1950 BBC newscaster but certainly more than enough to make him stand out amongst the travelling fair people. He also affected some rather pretentious habits, such as carrying a clean, white hanky in his breast pocket, sleeping in pyjamas and tucking a napkin into his collar when eating. He was the only wrestler I ever saw lifting weights to improve and tone his physique and he certainly had more of a Hollywood six-pack than any of the other guys. He wanted to fight under the name of Gorgeous George but Mal couldn’t say it without laughing so he ended up as “The Harrow Hammer”, although whether he was really an old Harrovian, I doubt.
George always insisted on privacy when he got changed, either for a fight or when he went to bed at night. When he fought for the ‘house’ his trunks were the skimpiest of anyone’s and the bulge on the front was really quite impressive (the girls seemed to think!).
Another regular was “Davy the Dustman”. Davy was a tiny man, barely five feet tall but hugely muscled and covered in course black hair from head to foot. On stage he would sometimes act the ape, walking like a gorilla and beating his chest to draw laughter from the crowds. Davy was a joker by nature and had as a good a repartee as most professional stand-up comedians. He had a massive stock of witty one liners and hilarious jokes which he would tell whenever the mood took him in the pub or round the yog. He was also a pretty cunning practical joker and the target of many of his clever, but never really malicious, acts was George’s overweening vanity. It was simple enough, in the hectic build up period, for Davy to hide George’s dumb-bells, or on one occasion to glue them to the floor. He sewed George’s hankie into his sports-coat breast pocket one night whilst George slept and on another occasion he sewed up the waist, cuffs and ankles of George’s pyjamas; Georgre didn’t notice this until he was stripped naked and ready to don his brushed cotton jammies, and by the time he’d unpicked all the stitching he was frozen and cursing
Chapter 26
It’s A Gas, Gas, Gas
When we had moved from Willesden to Canterbury my old Austin A10 had been left temporarily behind; Mal wanted me as brakeman and no one else wanted to drive my old banger, so it had stayed in the yard. When we moved on from Canterbury, another of the gaff lads, who Mal trusted as a brakeman, had re-joined him. So after pulling down, I hitch-hiked back to Willesden to pick up my car. I intended to then drive t
o the next destination, Chessington in Surrey, in time to help the build-up.
It took a couple of hours in to hitch-hike back to Willesden, and though the weather was dull and overcast it was quite mild and it wasn’t raining. I got to the yard at about eleven thirty and ran into a local lad I knew who stood me a pint to say goodbye. With a free pint inside me I got back to the car at about one in the afternoon and just as I set off the heavens opened and it absolutely poured. The wipers could barely cope with the deluge and the rain hammering on the roof drowned out all other sound except the spluttering of an underpowered engine that was frankly on its last legs....but I knew I could squeeze another couple of months out of her; I had to, I couldn’t afford to buy another car, not even a tenth-hand one like this had been.
After a few miles the hammering of the rain on the roof was giving me a headache and the streams of water on the windscreen made it difficult to clearly see the road ahead. I was hunched forward, gripping the wheel as if my life depended on it and barely daring to blink as I looked out for road-signs and other road users. At times it wasn’t actually that easy to see where the flipping road itself was. Soon I was suffering a throbbing headache and was actually having difficulty reading the road-signs and even remembering where the hell I was going.