Quintin Jardine - Wearing Purple

I hadn’t realised that the Global Wrestling Alliance had its own liveried bus, until I saw it parked outside the hotel as Jan and I arrived. It wasn’t any ordinary tourer; it looked almost as tall as a double-decker, as if its roof had been specially raised, and I guessed it probably had. When I stepped outside at quarter to five after leaving my wife in our suite, it had begun to fill with wrestlers. . very large wrestlers, each of them wearing a GWA tee-shirt.

The huge Daze. . he had the gold in his hair once again. . leaned out of the door and waved me on board. Even with the high roof he stooped slightly as he looked along the aisle. ‘Okay guys,’ he boomed. ‘For those of you who ain’t met him yet, this is Oz Blackstone, our new ring announcer.’ He turned to me. ‘Oz, I won’t introduce you down the line. Most of these superstars have their names on their shirts, so you’ll be able to figure out who’s who.

‘Grab yourself a seat, and let’s get under way.’

I nodded. There was a spare seat halfway up the aisle, next to Darius Hencke; well, a spare half seat at any rate. The huge German grinned as I squeezed myself in beside him.

As we swung out of the hotel drive, I could see the Newcastle Arena, on the same side of the river, not far away; so close indeed that I wondered why we hadn’t just walked. In fact, I asked Darius that very question, but the driver answered for him, as he turned the bus in the opposite direction.

‘We have to let the people know we’re here,’ the Black Angel of Death explained, tossing his long hair back from his forehead as he spoke and throwing a stage glower at a child who was gawping at him from the pavement.

The driver took us on a grand tour of the centre of the city, across the bridge, up into Gateshead, then round and back over the Tyne by another crossing, until finally, almost twenty-five minutes later, he drew the bus to a halt outside the venue.

The Newcastle Arena is a modern, purpose built place, a big shed with the flexibility to allow it to stage both sports events and rock concerts. As we stepped inside, I could see that Everett’s roadies were a hard-working crew. The ring was in position already, although the canvas and surround were still to be fitted.

As the boss led his troops, me included, across the empty floor, I tried to imagine it twenty-four hours later, filled with seats and screaming spectators. For the first time, a wee bundle of nerves knotted in my stomach, as I thought of myself standing up there, calling out the matches.

The highest of the three ropes which enclosed the ring looked to be around five feet high. Everett jumped up on to the apron and stepped clean over, with ease. ‘Okay guys,’ he called out, ‘listen up.’ The wrestlers, two of them tall, strapping women, and half a dozen older guys whom I took to be the referees and in-house television commentators, gathered around the ring.

‘We got eight matches on the bill tomorrow,’ the giant boomed. ‘You’ve all seen the running order, and you’ve all been working on your routines. Once the guys get the padding and the canvas down, I want you to run through them for me, as usual. . without breaking any props.’

He looked at me. ‘Meantime, Oz, you with me over there and we’ll rehearse your ring announcements.’

I nodded, understanding fully for the first time, what Everett Davis and the sports entertainment industry were all about. The man wasn’t a promoter after the manner of that American bloke with the big hair; he was an impresario, an actor director, and his presentations were an extreme form of dance theatre.

As the rest of the troupe split off into twos, or in one case, four, I followed him into a corner of the great hall, where a pile of speakers and other audio equipment stood ready for positioning. He picked up a cordless mike and handed it to me. ‘Get used to handling it like it’s not there,’ he said. ‘Hold it like I showed you the other day, chest height to give the cameras a clear shot of your face, about a foot and a half away from your mouth.’ I nodded, dumbly.

‘Okay. Now let’s hear you.’ I took the running order from the inside pocket of my sports jacket, and ran my eyes down it. The first match featured someone called Salvatore Scarletto (His real name was Johnny King: I had met him on the bus) fighting Tommy Rockette. (His gimmick appeared to be that he came to the ring carrying a guitar.) I ran through my intro, awkwardly. When we had tried it out first in Glasgow, I hadn’t been holding a mike.

‘Relax, man,’ said Everett. ‘Start slow and build up to a crescendo. Roll out each of the names, real slow, so that everyone can hear ’em loud and clear.’ After half a dozen more attempts, he was satisfied. ‘That’s good. Just keep that tempo and you’ll be fine, Oz. Now run through the rest of the card for me.’

I did as he asked. I must have been okay right enough, because his nods grew more emphatic and his smile widened as I went on. By the time I’d finished, I noticed for the first time an absentee from the list. ‘Where’s Jerry?’ I asked.

‘He’s not appearing this week. We’re using that video insert you saw the other day. It’ll run for the audience on our big screen.’

‘Is he okay?’

‘The Behemoth? Okay? Man, he’s indestructible. The fact is he’s on a kids’ television show tomorrow morning, as a special guest star.’

‘Kids’ telly? Won’t he scare the life out of the poor wee darlings?’

Everett laughed. ‘The opposite. He’s great with kids; they love him.’ He turned and looked across at the ring.

‘The canvas is in place. I gotta go and rehearse the guys. You just stay here and keep practising.’

I did as I was told, facing into the corner and feeling only slightly daft as I ran through the card over and over again. I was just about ready to pack it in for the night when a hand fell on my shoulder, none too softly.

‘Well now, Ozzie my boyo,’ said Liam Matthews. ‘How are you doing? Better than that last bastard, I hope.’ I hadn’t taken to the Irishman at first sight, but there was something in his tone which made me like him even less. The fact is it made me downright dislike him.

‘I want you to remember something,’ he brogued at me. ‘All the other introductions, they can all go to ratshit for all I care. There’s one you’d better get right, though, and you can guess whose that is.’ He squeezed my shoulder for a second, hard enough for it to hurt.

‘Sure’n let’s be hearing you now.’

‘If you want.’ I raised my dead mike to the required level and began to call my intro, ‘. . and his opponent, in this title match, all the way from Dublin, Ireland, the GWA Transcontinental Champion, Liam. . The Man. . Matthews!’

The Irishman’s long, thick blond hair flew as he shook his head, vigorously. ‘Christ man, where did the big D dig you up? You make me sound like a selling plater. I am the coming man in this organisation, and that’s all you can do for me?’

‘What more do you want?’ I demanded.

‘I want you to call out my name like you were introducing Jesus Christ, John Lennon and Muhammad Ali all in one. I want you to hang on to every letter, as if you couldn’t bear to let them go. I want you to have those little girls screaming for me before you’ve even got halfway through.’

And why would they be screaming for you, you greasy Irish toe-rag? I thought. I decided against voicing it though. ‘I’ll work on it,’ I said instead. ‘I’ll stay up all night working on it if I have to.’

‘As well you do, Ozzie boy. Otherwise you’ll come by the same injuries as the last fella.’ He gave me one of the least pleasant smiles I had ever seen and turned away, trotting across to the ring where Everett and the Black Angel of Death awaited his pleasure, together with Dee Dee, the ‘manager’, dressed this time in a casual shirt, rather than his incredibly loud jacket.