THE saga so far...
A long time ago, in a Welsh valley far, far away, I’ve become Charlie Fatt, professional wrestling referee.
After an outrageous career of hardcore matches, cheating wrestlers and general shenanigans, I’ve decided to leave the UK. It’s time for Charlie to “die”.
My final show with NWA Hammerlock / Celtic Wrestling is only a few days away.
My good friend, wrestling champion and promoter, Karl “Caiman” Griffiths and I have decided that Charlie deserves a send-off. That is, my character needs to be written out of the wrestling storyline.
Between shows, I’ve been training with the wrestlers on weekends. Surprisingly, this rarely involves the ring. Most sessions start with some cardio work, followed by stretches. We then lay crash mats on the floor and start to practise the moves.
I’ve become reasonably proficient with chain wrestling, that is, the standard grappling formula of arm bars, rolls and flip-ups that all wrestlers have to learn. I also know how to fall onto my front without hurting myself, known as a front bump.
It’s the back bumps I don’t enjoy. Every time I practise throwing myself backwards on a crash mat, slapping my arms and feet on the floor to take the impact instead of my spine, I have no problems, but when I try it in the actual ring, I don’t seem to have the neck strength to stop hitting the back of my head on the canvas.
I’m still pretty confident that I can take a bump in the ring and not get killed so in the locker room before my final appearance, I suggest that Charlie Fatt gets eliminated when the heel (bad guy) pushes me in the way of a high impact move by the babyface (good guy). But which move?
Caiman suggests a clothesline but I decline. That involves a back bump and my brain is slightly allergic to being slammed into the back of my skull.
I also dismiss being squashed in the ring corner. That is not impressive enough for a finale.
Chris Recall, the wrestler playing the face character in the main event, proposes that he jumps off the top rope and accidentally hits me with a cross body. Um, sure.
The card is under way and we have a big crowd. Many of my friends have come to witness my final match. They don’t know what is going to happen. I’m not 100 per cent certain either.
All of my matches run smoothly. That is, my refereeing is appropriately terrible. I miss the bad guys cheating because I’m too easily distracted, and the faces get frustrated because I’m extra strict with them. In other words, I’m doing a great job.
At the right time, with Chris up on the turnbuckle, I make sure that I am in position standing next to the heel. As Chris flies into the air, I’m pushed into his path and he collides with me squarely in the chest. The momentum takes me painlessly onto my back and then I flip over and land with a thud on my front. I hear the crowd gasp in shock. I lie motionless in the ring until my fellow wrestling officials retrieve my body and drag me backstage, but I can’t resist a smirk. Charlie Fatt has officially been killed off in the wrestling world.
I still keep in touch with some of the wrestlers back in Wales. No one so far has made it to the big leagues.
I made some enquiries with Australian wrestling organisations when I returned home but didn’t fancy travelling to Sydney to referee for peanuts (or even less than peanuts). Karl “Caiman” Griffiths has gotten married and retired from wrestling. He hopes to immigrate to Australia one day.
A famous philosopher named Justin Bieber once said, “Never say never”. Will Charlie Fatt be resurrected one day? His zebra-striped short still hangs in my wardrobe. You never know.