Lycra pants at the local church hall

It’s not every day you attend church in order to see a wrestling match. But on Saturday night Paul, Max and I headed up to All Saints Church in Whetstone for exactly that. We met up with our friends Brett, Rebecca, their sons Robbie (Max’s mate) and Sam, and another little boy called Thomas. Quite a party. The queue was around the block when we arrived and there was a slight skirmish in order to get the best pew, but all in a good spirit.

Father William was on the door, in charge of admissions and standby referee. I fancy I caught a quick peek of Lycra under his cassock, perhaps we were in for some vicar-on-vicar wrestling, but I couldn’t be sure. All rather thrilling. We settled down with our bottles of beer and diet coke, preparing to ‘boo’ and ‘hiss’ in unison, momentarily regretting our failure to invest in the giant foam finger hands, everyone else seemed to be brandishing about with vigour. Frankly, we felt left out. The atmosphere was set, the room dim and moody, if a little smelly. Suddenly they cranked up the music, and you just knew the evening had begun.

First up was Elvis himself. (I say that in the broadest sense.) His off white all-in-one crimpelene suit with matching gold cape could have done with an iron; it was a bit on the baggy side too if I have to be picky. But he excelled himself with the hair gel and sunglasses and hammed it up beautifully as the baddie, presenting a dynamic personality and proving to be a nifty little mover. Max and Robbie were up out of their seats like a shot, hurling retorts to his pretend mischief making.

Then along came nice bottomed B-ray, I know this because his name was blazoned across his pert behind, neatly tucked into some apple green Lycra shorts. He had a generous glug of baby oil in his hair and a good deal more smeared on his chest which I have to suspect had recently gone through a waxing routine, if not a hasty Immac. Still, I did like his boots. These two gladiators messed about in the ring for quarter of an hour or so and performed some wonderful hamming up of punches, locks and holds. A few flips and a good deal of groaning. The boys loved it. So did lots of us mums.

We went through a fair few similar acts, with lots of big muscular bottoms and Lycra pants. Waxing seemed a precursor and the odd belt or hat as a prop also added to the show. Pretend violence like you wouldn’t believe and a good deal of fake injury. Almost like the football! It was bizarre, not your average Saturday night, but brilliant family entertainment. The place was packed with mums and dads and their wild and unruly children. A perfect venue for the kids to exorcise all that excess energy and have a great time screaming blue murder at the bad guys while their parents sipped on a beer or two.

Talking of beer, by the end of the brief intermission Rebecca had put away a few bottles and was enjoying herself. Not a woman to mince her words or fear the slightest retribution, she gleefully let rip at our pantomime wrestlers much to all our delight.
‘In your own time then, preferably this evening!’ she hollered.
They gave it back in equal measures.
‘Shut up you old cow!’
‘Yeah, come over here and say that, call yourself fit.’ The tussle of words got slightly riper, but I couldn’t possibly elaborate here.
Robbie and Max required little encouragement and were cheerfully belting out insults to echo Rebecca, which I have to admit made me ever-so-slightly uncomfortable. We were beginning to be ‘the trouble corner’ and I feared significant retribution. I had nothing to fear though, as Robbie and Max were now out of their seats and down the front itching to get in the ring and have a go themselves. It was funny, dreadful, cringing, and delightful stuff, made all the more entertaining by our gobby Rebecca and accompanying boys.
I’m so British, quiet and timid, where my boy Max came from I’ll never know, but I envied him his vigour. Eyes sparkling as he goaded the baddies. I was forced to redress his language a couple of times, but it was just because he got carried away with the whole panto production. I can’t say it was my natural environment, but it was a good giggle and all the wrestlers seemed genuinely lovely blokes, making sure they involved all the children, knowing where to be careful and not to cross a line.

My only complaint was the smell. The farting at yoga is bad enough; here with half a dozen wrestlers it was just awful. That, and good old fashioned sweat. By the time we piled out at ten o’clock we were gasping. Fresh air had never been so welcome. We said out goodbyes to Father William and promised to attend the next event. Gosh, I must remember my giant foam finger hand.