WOS Wrestling, review: this camp, sweat-flying mayhem is hard to resist
“This is the dawn of a new era,” boomed the announcer, tongue presumably in cheek. “The jokers, the clowns and the buffoons are gone. Only the best, the brightest and most dedicated professional athletes get on this platform." Welcome to WOS Wrestling (ITV).”
During the Seventies and Eighties, bouts between tubby men in leotards somehow became one of the biggest attractions on television. Airing on ITV’s Saturday stalwart World of Sport (hence this “WOS” title) directly before the classified football results, they were regularly watched by 12 million devotees.
The wrestlers’ names alone are enough to spark nostalgia: Big Daddy, Giant Haystacks, Mick McManus, Jackie Pallo, Kendo Nagasaki. Forget The Rock or Hulk Hogan - they came from the irredeemably naff and noisy American version.
As home-grown grunting and grappling returned to the teatime terrestrial schedules after 30 years away, commentators were all too aware that it would induce a Proustian rush in viewers of a certain age. They repeatedly mentioned “the glory days”. Reigning WOS heavyweight champion Grado even led the crowd in a chant of “Eas-eh! Eas-eh!” - Big Daddy’s signature song in his pomp.
“The Big Daddy of this generation” strutted into the arena wearing a backwards baseball cap, a bum bag and a gormless expression, gurning at the crowd as he danced around like a disco drunkard. Cult hero Grado certainly shared a physique with his portly predecessor Big D (real name Shirley Crabtree). “Looking at mah belly, you can see I don’t go to the gym,” shrugged Grado. “Ah just walk my dug”.
An opponent said Grado had “clearly never had a salad in his life”. Billed as coming from the tough end of Stevenston, Scotland, he was more like a character from Rab C Nesbitt or Mrs Brown’s Boys than a muscle-bound athlete. The audience, naturally, lapped it up like Kool-Aid.
Aiming to put British wrestling back on the global map, this return featured four bouts during an hour of rope-bouncing, body-slamming, sweat-flying mayhem. They were fought between the likes of Love Island alumnus Adam Maxted, “aerial assassin” Will Ospreay and “British Bulldog” Davey Boy Smith Jr, who arrived to the sounds of Rule Britannia and wearing Union Jack trunks.
By far the most fearsome - and the most retro - was Crater, better known as Cyanide: a bearded 36st man-mountain in the tradition of Giant Haystacks himself. Just like the old days, there were cheer-them-on goodies and boo-them-off baddies (“blue-eyes” and “heels” in wrestling lingo), not to mention masked mystery men, dastardly tag team duos and skulduggery behind the referee’s back.
The arcane names of their moves were equally evocative, as opponents exchanged forearm smashes, drop kicks, top-rope suplexes, power slams, leg-breakers, ankle locks and European uppercuts.
Over-excited commentary came from wrestler-turned-“WOS exec” Stu Bennett, geezerish Alex Shane and American glamourpuss SoCal Val, plus backstage reporter Rachel Stringer. Retro wrestling was a beery, smoky man’s world, whereas the 21st-century remix is rather more reconstructed. Female wrestlers join in the fun next week.
Attempting to resurrect this family friendly tradition was a worthy endeavour and there was lots to like. This was self-styled sports entertainment - a camp pantomime, all fake tan and cartoonish theatrics, more akin to game show Gladiators than serious sport.
Octane levels were cranked up with moody slo-mo, close-ups of snarling faces and pumping music. The live audience bayed for blood and waved giant foam fingers, although there was a disappointing lack of enraged grannies marching down to ringside to whack the baddies with their handbags.
WOS Wrestling occasionally creaked at the joins and suffered in comparison to the original. However, that was undoubtedly due in part to rose-tinted nostalgia. Any newcomers would likely have found this endearingly daft spectacle hard to resist.
Rather than a predictable crowd-pleasing climax, proceedings ended on a shock defeat, as Grado lost his title to bearded Leeds bruiser Rampage. Cue outraged boos and a tantalising cliffhanger. As commentator Kent Walton used to say: “Have a good week, ’til next week.”