Wrestling Heritage

By Welsh Davey

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I’m a 63 year old Cardiff boy whose father introduced him to wrestling in 1958 when I was a very impressionable, shy and somewhat sensitive 11 year old. Despite most website references to the Cardiff wrestling scene tending to focus on Sophia Gardens, I remember another earlier and indeed far better Cardiff wrestling venue- the magnificent Drill Hall, Dumfries Place – alas no more.

My dad was a shift worker and so he could only take me to the Drill Hall one Wednesday in every three, despite it being a weekly event. The doors would open at 6 o’clock and despite most fans turning up much later to watch from the un-tiered seating around all four sides of the ring, we would arrive early, scurry for the much cheaper  ‘gallery’  at the far end of the hall. This was up a steep set of steps and contained something like five rows of benched seating running the length of the narrower end of the rectangular shaped hall.

My aim was to get to the middle of the front row from where the view of the bouts was simply fantastic, if a little distant. It was fortunate that we were looking directly down on the fights as you couldn’t see straight ahead because of the many large army flags hanging in neat rows the whole length of the Hall – it was after all a TA drill centre.

My abiding emotional memories from that first visit were excitement, followed by apprehension followed closely by sheer fear for one particular wrestler’s life and finally relief that he and I were both still alive and indeed that I had had a wonderful life experience! 

Yet that first evening started so normally. During my 90 minute wait for the first bout most other people in the gallery seemed nice enough, shared their sandwiches, cigarettes and sweets. They chatted amiably enough with my dad about a number of other wrestlers, including I believe Bert Assirati and a local wrestler called Sandy Orford. 

Come 7.30 however the mood in the Hall changed quite dramatically. The house lights were sequentially turned off to such a point that temporarily the hall became almost a total smokey blackness – except for the small tea stall at the other far end of the hall which was lit by a couple of single bare light bulbs. 

A lot of people –including those previously nice people around me now started whistling and shouting loudly- of what I have no specific memory-  but I knew something big  and scary was about to happen. I slid even closer to my dad and although I was 11 I snaked my arm firmly and tightly around his. If I’d been more courageous I think I would have tried to even sit on his lap!

Suddenly the ring lights previously at a low intensity were turned right up to a dazzling brightness. Following a momentary, tense pause a rather portly, shortish, balding man with a slight limp, dressed in a smart evening suite emerged from the dressing room and made his way to the ring and into which he climbed rather unsteadily. As I found out subsequently Mr Sammy King the MC had arrived. I distinctly remember his walk to and climb into the ring as it was accompanied by lots of  cat calling and wolf whistling from the audience- with hindsight all good natured banter – and he responded in a similar fashion once in the ring in part  I think by blowing the audience theatrical kisses.

Following Mr King’s general announcements including our introduction to the referee – possibly Tiny Carr but I think probably on this occasion the Scottish referee, Tony Lawrence, I received my next and really big sensory shock.I was deafened by the extremely loud playing of ‘Entrance of the Gladiators’- stirring, scary stuff. I was in sensory overload. Everyone’s eyes turned to the small insignificant dressing room door. I followed suite. After another rather tense pause the door opened and out stepped the first contestant – whose name I’ve maddeningly forgotten -to huge cheers, clapping and foot stomping.  He had on a long vividly coloured dressing gown and I followed his every measured step to the ring. Once through the ropes he looked a truly magnificent, colourful sight, mighty and seemingly very muscular. 

I had little time to take this awesome sight in since everyone looked once again toward that same small door. Following the now familiar pregnant pause but preceded this time by loud booing and catcalling –foremost from the people around me-  out stepped a clearly very nasty piece of work, a real villain, wearing a short waist length dressing gown and who on his slow walk to the ring confronted any fan close enough and who dared to just look at him. I can also just recall  that he was followed quite some distance behind by two much older, thin, rather stooping ‘seconds’ dressed all in white and carrying into the ring  a basic bucket and small white hand towel. 

Back in the ring Mr King introduced both wrestlers, each of whom in turn rather flamboyantly took off their dressing gowns to reveal their true muscularity. I was transfixed.  Noise levels in the Hall were now ear deafening as everyone just wanted the fight to begin. I knew it was going to happen real soon since both seconds and Mr King made their hasty exits through the ropes leaving just the two gladiators at arms length desperate to get at each other and separated only by the relatively small referee.

The bell suddenly sounded and the crowd – not least those right next to me and my Dad -had now turned into a baying bunch of wild animals, yelling, screaming and hollering as if their very lives depended on it. They clearly wanted the blood of one of these poor wrestlers whose name I was later told was  …. Charlie Fisher.    ‘Dirty Fisher’ they screamed….’Pull his bloody head off’. I was utterly shocked, and simply not used to this kind of language. I wanted out of this madhouse and back to the safety of Mam, home, bed and normal school life, where even homework looked safely appealing. I’d never seen or heard this number of grown men and women, so worked up, so wild or angry before. I was terrified. 

‘Dad…’ I whimpered in his ear ‘…please take me home…. now please…..I’m not feeling very well….please Dad…home…. now… please?’ 

Well he didn’t of course. Instead he probably wrapped his big overcoat around us both put his arm around me and let me have my interval chocolate bar and pop two bouts early!   Looking back I’m just so, glad we stayed. Because come 10.30 the world hadn’t ended, I was still alive as indeed was Charlie Fisher and everyone else.  Those wild animals all around me had turned back again into very nice ordinary people who happily divvied out their remaining sweets and cigarettes. 

Home I walked with Dad tired but probably chattering non stop, reliving and no doubt occasionally re-enacting some of the moves I’d seen.   Next day I told my school mates how fantastic it had all been and at tea time asked my dad if he’d take me again in three weeks time. He did and almost every third week after that- until I was old enough to go all by myself – we had fantastic, private adventures together. 

And so began a lifelong love of the golden age of wrestling and all the stars that lit up my life. There is hardly a week goes by even now when I don’t think about that relatively short time in my life, the magical times I spent in that special Drill Hall, the wrestlers who willingly signed my autograph book, spoke kindly to me outside the dressing room or occasionally let me fetch them their cup of tea from the refreshment stall. It’s like those five or so years and relatively few actual bouts I watched is out of all proportion to the huge impact they have had on my life. I still occasionally try to figure out ‘why’ but mostly I just am so grateful for the experience and private joy it’s given me.

In that sense being a member of Wrestling Heritage is allowing me to re-live and enjoy it all over again-thank you fellow members.Above all however I’d like to express my admiration, deepest appreciation and thanks to the many skilled, entertaining and magnificent wrestlers from our truly ‘golden age’- those still with us and those already in that great ‘dressing room in the sky’.”

​As I think back on my young days as a mad keen Cardiff wrestling fan–I was between 11 and 15 at the time- some of my lasting memories are of the small and insignificant things that sometimes happened on those magical nights in the Drill Hall. To this day I frequently and affectionately replay them in my head and thought I’d share three with you. 

I’ve included  these two incidents because they both in different ways show my deep wish to hold onto the wonderful illusion that perhaps only an impressionable young schoolboy would.  

Did I Really See This……..? 

Anyway all incidents happened on Wednesday nights at the Drill Hall, Dumfries Place, Cardiff sometime between 1958-1962.

​Garfield’s Tooth!  

It was the last fight of the night, a heavyweight contest featuring Alan Garfield. I’ve forgotten his opponent but I remember at one point Garfield stuck in a corner getting a right pasting. Following one particularly vicious forearm smash, his head jerked back violently and one of his teeth flew out of his mouth in a high arc of spittle, blood and other oral detritus. I guess most of the crowd continued watching the action as the fight moved to another part of the ring. For me though time stood still. I was transfixed by that tooth. I remember exactly where it landed- just outside the ring near the corner post, where it lay on the cold cement floor right next to the black cloth ring skirt. 

The bout, thankfully, ended soon after –well I was determined to get that tooth! Garfield and his foe wearily wound their way back to the dressing room, the house lights came on and fans trailed slowly out of the hall. As was my typical want at the end of a nights’ wrestling I stayed behind to, walk past the ring, touch and twang the ropes, feel the roughness of the canvas and see any other signs of another great nights fighting i.e. fresh blood stains!  I went straight for that corner post, looked down and there miraculously was that poor, solitary tooth. I bent down and picked it up……………

​Now this incident could have one of two endings: (i) I wrapped the still bloodied tooth in my dirty hanky and I still have it today up in my attic: or (ii) …what I actually picked up was a little ball of tightly wrapped white material still covered in a bit of wet, red stuff. I quickly and disappointedly threw the damp wad back on the floor. Just at that very, sad moment my dad, standing impatiently by the exit, shouted at me to hurry up, which I did.

Mind you I often think that if only I could have stayed and searched just a little bit longer maybe I would have found Garfield’s real tooth nearby!

​Dazzling Saviour of Life and Ring!  

One night my dad let me watch the four bouts from a fantastic new vantage point- standing right next to the dressing room door- and what’s more, all on my own. He meanwhile kept an eye on me from our usual place in the distant, cheap gallery or ‘gods’ as it was known. 

My new spot was very popular, right near the action and in glorious back- slapping, sweat touching and wintergreen smelling distance of the gladiators. Top of the bill was Mike Marino versus Wild Ian Campbell. The referee was Tiny Carr. Late in the match Marino, having taken a right hammering from his much heavier opponent, was flat out on the mat, head right under the bottom rope. Campbell suddenly kneeled over him and forced Marino’s exposed neck right up against the underside of the bottom rope and mercilessly held it there. 

​Despite this illegality, which Tiny Carr initially ignored, the referee proceeded to hold up Marino’s arm just to check all was ok. Marino signalled consciousness by clearly moving the said limb. A further minute passed but still Campbell would not let go despite Tiny Carr’s now, more frequent remonstrations. Once more the referee momentarily held up Marino’s arm. Again it moved- if a tad more slackly than previously-before once more falling back to the mat. 

The fact that by now Campbell had been disqualified made not a jot of difference as he continued with the slow asphyxiation. As if to signal a now rapidly deteriorating situation the bell started being rung continuously and vigorously by the ringside officials. Even Sammy King, our MC was hovering nearby -a sure sign of escalating management concern. 

​The crowd was in absolute uproar with stewards desperately holding concerned, angry people back from the ring. This however just seemed to goad Campbell further, for he built himself into even more rage, spewing a storm of Scottish spittle, bile and wildness. He looked and sounded every inch a wild pained, powerful Scottish mammoth waiting to devour his now helpless prey.  

​Oddly enough, even amidst this general chaos and mayhem, a lot of peoples attention, mine included, were still focussed on Marino’s arm. Almost inevitably there soon followed the moment when Tiny Carr lifted it one final time, only for it to fall limply, lifelessly back to the canvas.  I was truly terrified- I had come to see sport not murder! 

Then just when it seemed Marino must have died, a miracle happened… .and .he was standing right beside me! At first I couldn’t get a good look at him- we all being packed so tightly near the dressing room door- but he seemed big, fit, good looking, dressed in normal casual clothes. 

​Initially he edged then more determinedly pushed himself forward to the very front of the crowd.  Men and women near me turned to look at him. Some, the other side of the ring started pointing at him, shouting his name, pleading with him to do something. In no time at all, the whole Hall joined in, stamping their feet and repeatedly screaming his name. 

​Even I now knew who he was – because there standing proudly at the head of this wild, frightened -and frightening mob- advancing menacingly down the narrow diagonal path from dressing room to ring, caught in the glare of the ring lights stood ……Dazzling Joe Cornelius. Joe, it is worth pointing out, had done his nights work two bouts earlier.

Anyway me, partly caught in Joe’s slipstream and partly propelled forward by the surging crowd behind me, found myself just behind him. So carried away was I by the moment that it didn’t occur to me what my Dad was thinking sitting 50 yards away- he probably bit clean through his pipe stem! 

​When the whole Hall now saw this truly magnificent figure – film star looks, huge chest, glorious mane of long black curly hair- they knew that Marino might yet still be saved. And Joe began the rescue in the most dramatic way. Violently he ripped open and tore off his once immaculate white shirt, exposing a mighty bronzed chest. He then sprinted to the ring, jumped onto the apron, vaulted the top rope and drop kicked Campbell clean out onto the hall floor. If only the crowd could have got at the heinous villain… Anyway Campbell scrambled –rather quickly for a man mountain -back into the ring whereupon he found himself thrown repeatedly from pillar to post. Sheer glorious cum-uppance! 

​Meanwhile Marino, with the support of both seconds, two local St Johns Ambulance men and poor, bedraggled Tiny Carr, was somehow making a miraculous recovery. So much so that, with Joe’s considerable assistance, he was able to deliver the ‘coup de grace’ by lifting and slamming Campbell’s huge body down onto the mat. The ring shook to its very foundations sending massive dust clouds high into the night air. Campbell was out for the count and his two victors, arms held jointly aloft, stood with one foot each on the wild mans heaving chest but now prone body. Absolute Magic!!!

​Looking back, it just goes to show the role ‘chance’, luck, good fortune, serendipity, call it what you will, can play in life. If Joe had been anywhere else at that critical moment, dressing room or wherever, there is no doubt about it Marino would have died that night. 

​Mind you I could almost swear seeing a pair of long, white laced, shiny black wrestling boots poking out the ends of Joe’s smart black casual trousers as he vaulted that ring!!

​Doug Joyce’s Dopple-Ganger!

This third incident remains a bit of an enigma. On this night was I just an overawed schoolboy with a vivid imagination-as most of my long suffering family suspect – or did it really happen? Picture the scene. Me, a 13 year boy thrilled to be asked and carefully carrying a tray of teas into the dressing room during the half time interval! Upon entering who do I see but Doug Joyce, who only 15 minutes ago had finished his own bout. He had clearly showered, was still carrying the marks from his previous fight but was now in a different pair of trunks. That’s odd I thought as I left the dressing room.

Two bouts later – the last of the night – Whipper Wilson walks into the ring! I can’t believe my eyes as he looks the spitting image of Doug Joyce!! 54 long years later, looking through our A-Z I’ve only partially got to the bottom of it. As most of you know- Doug Joyce occasionally did fight as the fictional ‘Whipper Wilson’. But on the same bill?? Surely not. I can’t imagine a Cardiff crowd putting up with that. Or might they?

Two possible scenarios come to mind: (i) previous night’s injury to billed wrestler, no late substitute available, MC publicly thanks Joyce–but unheard by me- already on bill, for substituting at last minute thereby ensuring we get our four bouts; or (ii) maybe Joyce was part of a four man ‘sensational one night knock out challenge’ and what I had actually seen was him simply freshening up between his first and second bouts later that night – though fighting as himself again?

Why though did I think I saw Whipper Wilson? I had no reason to. His name must have been on that bill. I don’t have a programme for that night. Truth be told my dad rarely bought one, we usually picked up a discarded one at the end of the night. I’ve periodically delved through these and other ‘flyers’ to see if they throw any more light on things. They do – but only to confirm what most Wrestling Heritage members already know. Whipper Wilson was sometimes described as coming from Toronto, Canada, and hailed as ‘The Canadian Star’ or ‘Canada’s Tough Guy’- as for example on the Cardiff nights he fought Kiwi Kingston (Christchurch), Tony Zale (Southport) Pat O’Hara(Dublin) or indeed the winner of a previous fight between Digger Rowell and Charlie Fisher. On other nights however he was billed as coming from… (Doug Joyce) as for example when in he fought Don Griffen (Toronto, Canada), Rocky Wall (Doncaster) and Iska Khan (Mongolia).

Anyway, I’m still left with one big question. Is there any evidence Doug Joyce/Whipper Wilson ever fought different opponents on the same bill- as young naive me suspected happened on that night? Very unlikely I know, but in the glorious days of British wrestling anything could and did happen! I’ve even trawled our Wrestling Heritage website looking at old results across the country and can find no reference to these two names ever appearing on the same bill. Maybe they did, perhaps only twice, but I just haven’t come across the other one yet?