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Resources are disproportionately limited when we consider the very few voices heard by the public in wrestling circles, but this lack of quantity was frequently and amply rebalanced by choice gems of wisecracks, put downs, blunders and off-the cuff improvisation.
In the cases of the majority of wrestlers we never ever heard them speak. Tibor’s remonstrations with the referee seemed mimed, McManus’s insults sounded like aggressive Teletubby-talk. For all their tomfoolery, the Royals in tag were like Harpo Marx, and serious champs like George Kidd and Billy Joyce were just plain silent.
But when they chose to speak, wrestlers frequently had something useful to say.
Maybe the most well known voice is that of a wrestler who paradoxically shunned publicity and wasn’t filmed or photographed for the first ten years of his career, Leon Arras of Barnsley. When he finally did bound onto the scene he made up for lost time with catchphrases made all his own:
“I know the rules.”
“ Ow about that then?”
Each was invariably made all the more effective when Arras was immediately taken down a peg from his position of superiority.
Jim Breaks was a fine versatile performer and pure wrestler, a multi-titled champion over 20 years. Whilst his Cry-Baby stamps were repeated in most bouts, the versatility of his put-downs to commentator, audience and opponent alike were legendary. So for Breaks we don’t have catchphrases to choose from but mention one of very many choice interchanges designed to elicit the maximum audience involvement and indignation:
“I’ve got two words for you, Saint. Not Good Enough.”
Three wrestlers down the years of televised wrestling were invited to assist the main commentator and provide analysis between rounds, Tony Mancelli, Wild Ian Campbell, and then in the seventies, Mick McManus. It was a tough job carving the role – how could these latter two villains of the ring seriously criticise some of the other baddies they were analysing? McManus stole the show in this category when reverting to his in-ring arrogant persona and commenting on a Tony St Clair bout:
“He beat me on tv a year ago and now he’s the British Heavyweight Champion.”
It’s hard to know whether we should be treating such Mainwaring-like pomposity as brilliance or a show of real feelings!
Black wrestlers tended to stay silent as they had usually been billed from some exotic place they had never been to, but the inimitable Masambula did at least try to play the game by asking for a submission with his:
“Him say yes?”
Some did have the real accent to back their billing, and Johnny Czeslaw regularly spiced up his bouts with admittedly more Nazi-sounding expletives such as
“Nein”
“Schweinhund”
But then these were the days of Hogan’s Heroes and we all willingly learned some German.
Big Daddy was reluctant to grab the mike given his great alleged popularity in the late seventies. We all became familiar with his incessant “Eh?” through his bouts and wondered what an evening would be like in conversation with him. When once he did decide to speak it was only to bungle the in-ring name Wayne Bridges by calling his friend Bill Bridges.
His even larger counterpart Giant Haystacks had a much more entertaining repertoire of one-liners, such as:
“Stop feeding me midgets”
“No more Mr Nice Guy!”
Les Kellett didn’t need a mike as he shouted at the top of his voice into Max Ward’s ear:
“Has the bell gone?”
and then implored the official to:
“Tell him then!”.
Mind you, we loved referee Ward’s burr as he reeled off counts and admonished the wrongdoer with
“I’m telling yoooooou!”
Of those who did deem themselves worthy of speech-making, we remember dear Count Bartelli who started but had trouble finishing; the Mighty John Quinn with his magnificent abuse of the “Limeys”; and we recall the final voice heard on televised wrestling in 1988 when, at the end of the Caswell Martin versus Pat Roach encounter, the Midlander spoke on behalf of all the wrestlers to thank the viewing public for allowing them over the previous 33 years:
“into your front parlour”.
Americans in particular couldn’t resist grabbing the mike to share their insults or appreciation and we recall Rick Hunter, Jim Harris and the chatterbox Butts Logger Giraud amongst them.
After those few select nominations which we hope will raise a smile as you recall them with us, we turn to the two categories of voice we did hear very regularly, the masters of ceremonies and the commentators.
The best emcees by a mile were undoubtedly two northerners, Neil Sowden and Ernest Lofthouse. These two shining beacons surrounded by mediocrity would ensure that every scoring fall would have its full description of not only the single manoeuvre but the sequence of manoeuvres that had led to its execution. This was a much appreciated moment in our halls as well as on television. It either informed us, or enabled us to glow with an inner glow of pride at our own awareness. It added importance and value to the wrestlers’ performances. And it actually rendered the MC’s role useful, when so often it seemed redundant.
Frankie Blake was allegedly the doyen of southern emcees, but his status lent itself more to age than ability and his lazy clipped drawl, whilst at best dating back to pre-war styles, was not worthy at all of the excellent wrestling he was privileged to officiate on.
Of his southern peers, Mike Judd made a far more enthusiastic fist of things. We recall with affection his way of informing the crowd of a change to the billing due to a non-attendance:
(Hushed funereal tones)
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am very sorry to have to inform you of a change to the billing of tonight’s programme.
(attentive audience hushes save a few moaners who fear the worst.)
“I regret very much to have to inform you …
(slows, long pause, apologetic look, more audience uneasiness)
“that Mick McManus …
(long pause for audience uproar and insults, and “We paid good money” type comments)
“that Mick McManus IS here!”
(even louder booing!)
Great manipulation à la Breaks at the start of this piece.
Charlie Fisher, too, is worthy of an honourable mention for the verve with which he opened every evening’s activity by attributing oomph and interest to every single syllable of:
“Hello everybody and welcome to another programme of all-star international professional wrestling brought to you by your promoters Dale & Martin”.
When trying to elicit interest in the bill for the next programme, a week or a month later, Charlie would do his best to convey this enthusiasm to the crowd, with little one-liners such as:
“And here’s a contest I know I would love to see.”
Whilst we retain great affection for these and other announcers, it’s just a great shame that they didn’t follow through this spoken enthusiasm by sitting down to watch the wrestling. They all seemed to prefer to exit to the dressing room only to return mysteriously on cue at the start of a round in which a score would occur. A shining exception here would be Harry Roth.
Finally we turn to the voices we knew most, the commentators. Peter Cockburn commented in rather serious style that did little to arouse the excitement of the fans in accordance with in-ring action and antics. His Dan Maskell like tones are still with us as many fans have recordings of the 1964 bout between Pietro Cappelle and Ricky Starr. Then in 1971 when Robby Baron and Mick McManus opposed each other on Bruce Forsyth’s Generation Game, the commentator chosen as role model was Peter Dimmock. It was very dry.
And last of all we turn to Kent Walton, whose mid-Atlantic baritone and straight-bat playing the game did more than any single person to elevate the acceptability and, even, legitimacy of professional wrestling from its televised re-emergence in 1955. Everything he said seemed to become a catchphrase, and, when considering this a few years ago, we coined the expression Waltonisms. Some Waltonisms have passed into wrestling folklore, many have been imitated, a few have perhaps even been inaccurately attributed, but hey, what the hell, this is the fun of all-in wrestling, let’s just list and leave you to muse over some choice Waltonisms.
“Hello Grappling Fans”
“Hello Grapple Gazers”
“Have a good week till next week.”
“Round Four, three to go” (which always had us reaching for the abacus)
“The referee is Joe D’Orazio – and good luck to him!”
“I don’t know what Ginsburg is beefing about.”
(of any legitimate foreigner, even if fluent in English) “He doesn’t speak a word of English”
“This should be a real humdinger.”
“Ei ei, Ei ei, Ei”
“Steve Logan is a marvellous technical wrestler and really has no need to bend the rules like this.”
(of each and every masked wrestler) “I have no idea who he is or where he comes from, he wouldn’t speak to me in the dressing rooms beforehand.”
We have wondered and mused and debated but never come to any firm conclusions as to Kent Walton’s level of involvement. Who paid him? Who urged him to create Whoppers of Waltonisms in defence of wrestling’s legitimacy. It was certainly in the interests of all concerned. Regardless of that mystery, Kent Walton had the resourcefulness to lend believability to even the silliest of circumstances he was required to commentate on.
In one bout, Catweazle ko’d Bob Kirkwood, and the Portsmouth wrestler went on to do the very theatrical “I’ve hurt my back” bit. As he writhed, Catweazle, most unbelievably, put his back into position, to which Kent said:
“Catweazle clearly knows more than a little about osteopathy.”
In Lee Sharron versus Steve Viedor:
“We first saw Sharron on the small screen in 1964. He turned pro in 1965.”
In the same bout, without a hint of irony or humour in his voice, when the hatpin brigade were incensed, not one of them the right side of 60, he referred to them as “the girls at ringside”.
Big Daddy/KId Chocolate and the Masked Marauders. Walton had the nerve to comment about the Marauders: “I think they are from Belgium.” A final Waltonism for this by no means exhaustive list was a magnificent one-off, delivered with such reverential tones that it could easily have passed one by:
“The referee is insisting Mick McManus lace up his boots and rightly so. This loose lace could be very dangerous in an opponent’s eye if McManus were to deliver a drop-kick.”
In Armchair Corner, by the way, many reviews comment on Kent Walton trying to over-trump the caption stating the wrestler’s home town. He chased Steve Logan from Brixton, to Walworth, to Morecambe and back to Bermondsey, for instance, never agreeing with his director, or, weirdly, the caption he was probably instrumental in composing.
As with all Wrestling Heritage feature articles, we look forward to your feedback and, in this case, your extension of the listings with memories of Wrestling’s Words of Wisdom via the related forum thread.
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