An Eight Man Battle Royale
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Just to prove we are not complete stick-in-the-muds blinkered to all wrestling after the Her Majesty’s Silver Jubilee, let’s take an objective look at an eighties phenomenon, the 8-man Battle Royale, aired on her son’s birthday ten years later.
This one started promisingly with Kent Walton informing us that the MC was going to explain the rules. “There are no rules”, we were then informed.
All was not lost as Brian Crabtree immediately contradicted himself by explaining what the rules were.
Kent Walton was further disappointed as no introductions were made of the wrestlers and went on befuddledly to have to refer to some of the wrestlers as “this fellow” when he couldn’t identify them during the bout. All those years describing the turned down socks on wrestlers’ boots came to nought, and Kent seemed truly to have given up the ghost, not creating the faintest intrigue about the identity of the masked El Diablo.
The director was, on this occasion, more tuned in than anyone, suitably zooming in on the three key players, Alan Kilby, King Ben and Ted Heath, while the announcer elaborated the rules he had said didn’t exist. Commentary was needed to explain this, that they were favourites, but silence once again served merely to confirm than any semblance of competitiveness had been strangled out of the beast many years previously.
A good action-packed Battle Royale could have made us overlook these verbal shortcomings. Could have.
The whole short-lived experience was a shambles. Forearm smashes were delivered and a valiant Jimmy Ocean tried to bring some wrestling into it. The format was clearly not suited to the small screen, however, as most ring exits were completely or partially lost, and a few set pieces that pairs and threesomes had seemingly planned in advance failed to get the attention they had been intended to attract.
The Kilby and Ocean exits had been planned for one to follow the other and the lighter man to be thrown on top of Kilby or for Kilby to catch outside the ring. It didn’t work at all and Kilby’s frustrated aggression at Ocean after the failed collaboration was probably the most legit part of this whole affair.
Most embarrassing moment was when Ted Heath and El Diabolo were left with King Ben and had him ¾-way over the top and headed for clear elimination. At that point it dawned on them that this was the winner-to-be and so a ridiculously contrived retrieval of their opponent ensued and the bout continued.
The experienced Heath worked hard, and also had to guide the rather hopeless masked man for much of the time. Our nostalgic eyes did manage a sparkle of delight as Heath, the Dynamic Dennison of early seventies tag mayhem, managed successfully to apply some delightful tag-team routines of the double-teaming baddies being hoist with their own petard: all credit to him for getting El Diabolo working properly at least a couple of times.
Just as we thought the finale was in good hands, Hooker Ted fluffed the end. Ok, turn your back on your opponent to look at the audience. It’s rather ridiculous in any form of combat, but wrestling fans have come to expect and even accept this nasty trait, the very hallmark of Ted’s predecessor in the Dennisons. But if the intention is to take a drop-kick from behind, at least position yourself close enough to the top rope so as to be able to make the leap up and over for a spectacular departure, particularly here where the final Grand Exit should have been the climax. Poor Ted managed only half-way, a tired racehorse refusing at Becher’s Brook. He bounced and tangled but Ben was on hand to move in and complete the move for him.
That’s pretty damning but that’s how it looked. All the more frustrating is the firm conviction that the whole thing had very clear potential to be as exciting and sensational as the promoters would have had us believe. The essence of the problems was a lack of teamwork.
Ring Announcer, commentator, tv crew, referees and participants all needed to sit down with perhaps one central enlightened promoter to choreograph action. Action was what was needed, not prolonged muddled clusters of bodies boringly wrapped around the ropes.
Maybe in a second life we will indeed be dynamically choreographing wrestling promoters, but for now all we sixties wiseguys can do is Look Back in Anger.
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