Nevertheless the American wrestlers were besieged by fans outside the Metropole Hotel, and then
Part of me can understand why most of the citizens of our diverse city may have little interest in the 'sport' of American wrestling.
And yet, and yet .... yes I may even have to suggest that WWE Raw has an appeal which even us slightly smug middle-class English progressives might do well to ponder. Clearly the fights are all choreographed, the wrestlers themselves are absurdly steroidly enhanced and there is an underlying sexism (even when it's the women who are 'wrestling').
But there is also something of the ancient morality play about the whole event. It's good v evil, heroes v villains, a soap opera for the masses where in the end right (as in not wrong - and also I concede possibly a bit rightish of centre in political terms) triumphs.
Ok that's my effort to defend the indefensible and understand the appeal of Amercan wrestling. Having done that it still has nothing on the old British wrestling of my childhood.
Greg Dyke is a great man - he invented Roland Rat, was Director General of the BBC and now runs the Football Association (the odd FIFA watch not withstanding) with distinction. But for many people of my generation he can never be forgiven for ending wrestling on ITV.
"Welcome grapple fans to the Empire Baths, Southend/Blackpool/Skegness/Clacton", are the words of Kent Walton which are seared in our memory. In the wonderful 45 minutes on World of Sport, after Dickie Davis gave the half times, and before the full-time football results came in, we were taken to another world on Saturday afternoons.
It involved goodies and baddies, old ladies in the audience hitting fat blokes in leotards with their handbags and my nan telling me that Mick McManus was a 'coward.'
The tag matches were great. McManus (apparently a quiet man away from the ring who collected porcelain) teamed up with Steve Logan. The latter had greasy hair which he would rub in the eyes of the clean cut opponents he and Mick were fighting.
In contrast to McManus and Logan, there were the Royal 'Brothers'. Bert Royal was a balding middle aged bloke who fought alongside his glamorous 'brother' Vic Faulkner. They would often be losing to some nasty villainous adversaries, with Vic injured having mistimed a drop-kick, before turning the tables and gaining a much appreciated (by the old ladies in the audience anyway) last-second win.
I concede it's true that the wrestling in those days would not pass a modern diversity test. My favourites were Honey Boy Zimba (a kind of African chief), Johnny Kwango (who had a very hard head), Adrian Street (a gay caricature) and Tibor Szakacs (who I think was Hungarian and specialised in the karate chop).
Les Kellett was the great comedian. He ran a cafe in Bradford and was in real life as hard as nails. One villain even converted. Alan Dennison was a sneaky cheat, who wore black wristbands and gave the 'goodies' Chinese burns behind the referee's back. He then experienced some kind of epiphany and tried to behave himself but the audience - egged on by Kent Walton - just refused to believe him.
British wrestling started to go downhill when the Sun exposed the masked wrestler Kendo Nagasaki. Even Gorgeous George his manager, and one time tag team partner, was unable to explain how Kendo could wrestle in 6 different towns at exactly the same time on the same night. After that came the now, with hindsight, rather sinister Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks - a prelude to the Amercian stuff which eventually took over and gave us the WWE which was here this week.
There is a great book on the golden age of British wrestling called (appropriately) 'The Wrestling' by Simon Garfield . I have a copy in the loft and must dig it out.
In the meantime, as the ref used to say,"'1err, 2err......" I submit.
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