Apparently, we’re back with a vengeance, because it’s 1am when I’m starting this piece, and I’m angry. I try not to be angry a lot; it’s not a good look for me, because at 4’11”, being femme, and using a mobility aid, it’s like that chihuahua on the street yapping at the rottweiler – you know who’s coming off worst if that comes to a fight, and you know, too, that the big dog just doesn’t give a fuck.
ACW at Keeton’s Hall in Bermondsey, south-east London, was the first small show I’d been to, the first village hall show, where the ring skirts don’t meet the floor, and the air conditioning is some fans that appear to be haphazardly stuck to the walls. It was also the first family-friendly show I’d been to, and Emmy and I spent much of the journey trying to think of ways to edit the chants we’d used the weekend before at Progress so we weren’t swearing our heads off every five seconds.
A week after Progress, I went to a completely different sort of wrestling – a family-friendly event in Bermondsey, south-east London, in the early afternoon. How did it measure up to the bigger promotions I’ve been to?
