Scrap 66

SCRAP 66
The Hawaiian Ballroom has been reorganised to accommodate the wrestling ring, with chairs arranged in rows around it. The action is not due to start until 3pm but with half an hour to go the room is already full, the air thick with cigarette smoke and steam rising from rain-soaked clothing.
The bar is doing a roaring trade, with brandy and whisky in high demand for chasing out the chills of the English summer weather.
Frank is seated on the front row with Scotty’s clan, a tray of drinks at his feet, which he is guarding against passing traffic by sticking his legs out straight in front of him. He is nicely settled in with his crisps, salted cashews, chocolate bars and beer. The double rum has gone down nicely, warming everything in its path to his already loaded stomach. He lights another Rothmans cigarette and looks along the row to where Mavis is sitting, pint of stout in hand, arms resting on her trusty handbag. God help the Masked Marauder if she gets near him.
Scotty is seated next to his friend, his four sons beside him, flanked by Dawn, the two girls next to her and Mavis on the end of the row where she can get a good run at the ring if she gets a chance. She loves a spot of wrestling does Mavis and joins in enthusiastically with the traditional booing, cheering and name-calling. She pats her coat pocket to check that the hat pin is still there, and smiles to her daughter as she taps the side of her nose.
The noisy crowd is hushed as the entertainments manager climbs into the ring, turns on the microphone and announces the arrival of the combatants. He then hands over to the master of ceremonies, who introduces the men as they swagger through the room and into the arena.
‘In the blue corner, weighing seventeen stone five pounds: Max Martin,’ he booms. Max takes several bows, is helped from his bright red silk dressing gown by his second and parades the ring with his arms in the air before taking his place in his corner. ‘And in the red corner,’ continues the MC, ‘From the United States of America: Mister Buddy Cornell Junior.’
Buddy Cornell Junior removes his padded satin dressing gown, folds it neatly and gently passes it to his second, who makes a show of depositing it carefully on a chair ring-side before stepping down to join it. The two men are called forward by the referee, given the pre-match talk and sent back to their corners. The timekeeper rings the bell and the match is underway.
Despite everyone being aware that the moves are carefully choreographed, the men show obvious signs of the rough nature of their work, both being marked by bruising and scars. They throw each other about expertly as the referee leaps about adding to the theatricals by counting the holds and calling the breaks.
The bell sounds and they return to their corners. The match continues with the usual throws, body slams and holds, until the final bell is sounded and the judges give their decision.
The crowd are encouraged to shout for the man they believe did the best job, but it’s Buddy Cornell Junior who is announced the winner and takes his bows, while his opponent slinks back to the dressing room to prepare for the journey to the evening match in Ramsgate, which will be won by him. The victor is helped with his dressing gown and marches back to the dressing room to the cheers of the crowd.
‘I didn’t think much of him,’ says Mavis, ‘a bit too predictable for my liking.’ Dawn agrees, adding that she only wants to see the Masked Marauder anyway so she can give him a piece of her mind.’ Scotty quietly observes to Frank that she doesn’t have that much to spare.
The second bout gets the crowd nicely stirred up, with Jack Jackson and Bill Withers knocking lumps out of each other and refusing to break at the referee’s commands.
The ring seems to shift across the floor as the men throw each other across from side to side, using the give of the ropes to hurl their bodies at speed for better body slams. The crowd get to their feet, shouting and cheering each move, and Mavis is working herself to frenzy, completely lost in the action.
The match is declared a draw when the men are hurled together with such force they are both knocked out cold, (supposedly) and their seconds each throw their towels into the ring before leaping into action with their buckets of cold water and sponges.
The crowd stamp and clap as the men are brought round and helped from the ring. The MC says there will now be a fifteen minute break before the main event: Alan Dale versus The Masked Marauder. He switches off the mike and climbs down from the ring, happy that just the right level of excitement is building.