Confessions of a Wrestler

Martin R Gillott

CONFESSIONS OF A WRESTLER

The Autobiography of British Wrestling Legend Jackie ‘Glitterboy’ Evans

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Martin R. Gillott

Martin R Gillott has asserted their right under the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

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ISBN: 978-1-86151-069-3

The lady in the front row

Why do you really hate me

As I strut around the ring

And start to hurl abuse at me

When I haven’t done a thing?

I’m here to entertain you

And to win a bout or two

It doesn’t help me, not one bit

When you spit and hiss and boo.

You are such a dear old lady

Of that I have no doubt

But when I’m on the canvas

You treat me like a lout!

I’m just a harmless wrestler

Trying hard to earn a crust

You stub your fag out on my back

And try my head to bust

Take that brick out from your handbag

Sit back and take a rest

Enjoy the show for what it is

And let me do my best.

We are both human beings

When all is said and done

After all, you are my mother

And I am still your son.

Martin R Gillott

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Foreword, by T P Bayliss Introduction

ROUND ONE A childhood passion

ROUND TWO All the fun of the fair

ROUND THREE Working with promoters

ROUND FOUR Playing for laughs

ROUND FIVE Rings and things

ROUND SIX Landladies from hell

ROUND SEVEN Hitting the big time

ROUND EIGHT The wrestler’s top ten questions

ROUND NINE A wrestler’s postbag

ROUND TEN Short careers and tall stories

I dedicate this book to Ruth, my lovely wife, best friend and soulmate, who has always been there for me, without question.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank all my family, friends and fellow wrestlers for their support in the writing of this book and their patience, understanding and help in reminding me of one or two stories that had momentarily slipped my mind. Those that I live with, those I have worked with and one or two of you who I have got drunk with, I dedicate this all to you, as without you, there would have been no memories.

I also dedicate this to my good friends Karen and Glyn Lindley. Karen, who was good enough to cast an eye over my work and prevented me from showing my grammatical ignorance, and Glyn, who over the years listened to my countless tales from the past without flinching or yawning.

To my good friend Lyn Cinderey, whose advice is always of value, and always taken.

And last but not least, to my darling wife Ruth, to whom I owe so much and who never once lost her temper with me as I crashed my blunderous way through her best laptop.

Foreword

I first met Martin Gillott, aka Jackie ‘Glitterboy’ Evans, in 1970 when he was beginning to make a name for himself in the world of wrestling. He was proving himself with a host of different promoters and I was a humble Master Of Ceremonies, announcing a variety of wrestlers as they entered the ring. The following years would show his rise in the game whilst I myself could only manage to reach the height of referee.

It was on our first meeting in his home town of Stroud that I very soon realised that Martin was a person who took his sport seriously and lived for his art. I followed his progress over the coming years but was never surprised at the way he worked himself hard enough to eventually reach the top. We lost touch over the years, although I managed to follow his career through several press cuttings and issues of Ringsport magazine, which readily available at that time, and as luck would have it, we met up again shortly before he finally hung up his boots.

I have been privileged to know many of the wrestlers throughout my life, but I don’t think that there was a more dedicated and workmanlike person in or out of the ring. He still retains that rare ability to take an awkward situation and make light of it, putting people at their ease and finding a suitable solution that suits everyone involved. This is undoubtedly a gift that few people have, and Martin had it by the bucketful. He cared about people in his company and would always help in any way possible. He would recall his wrestling days with great fondness, as you will no doubt agree, once you have read this book. As I read it, I can still hear him telling me some of the antics that he got up to over the years.

The only thing missing from the print is that little chuckle from time to time as Martin relayed some anecdote from his bygone days that still means a lot to him. I am proud to say that I lived some of his early stories alongside him and will always be proud to call him a dear friend.

T P Bayliss

Introduction

I was twelve years old when I first knew I wanted to be a wrestler, and it made my school life difficult. All my mates wanted to be footballers or train drivers, but not me. I must have driven them all mad, as wrestling was the only thing I could talk about. As far as I know anoraks hadn’t been invented then, so I guess I would have been called a duffle coat.

My PE teacher had the right idea when confronted with my reluctance to play football. He took me to one side and mentioned that if I wanted to become a wrestler, then what better training could there be than to be in goal? After all, there would be plenty of opportunity to throw myself on the ground, which was something I was going to have to master if I was to have a life in the ring. He won me over and from that day, I could always be relied on to be in goal. That was until I went to secondary school, when I lost that crown to a lad called Steven Banyard, who was a lot taller than me and could keep the high balls out from the back of the net. That was the demise of my footballing days.

I tried my hand at other sports but it was no good, it was wrestling or nothing. What I hadn’t realised was that being in the ring was a fraction of the life that I had chosen. The rest was taken up with copious amounts of travelling and living out of a suitcase for sometimes weeks on end, and of course, having a very limited social life.

Now that I can look back on it, was it all worth it? Of course it was, and if I had my time over, I would do it all again.

Martin R Gillott aka Jackie ‘Glitterboy’ Evans

A childhood passion

It was one Friday evening in summer. I was about twelve years old at the time and I was running for all I was worth to get home as quickly as possible. After all, I doubt whether any other twelve-year-old was the keeper of such important information, and it needed to be relayed at the first possible moment. As I ran around the last corner, before reaching home, I wondered how best to frame the news to my family. So important was it that I didn’t have time to shut the garden gate. That would have to be done later. I knew how much Dad hated the gate left open, but this was ground-breaking news.

I rushed into the hallway of our home and shouted to my elder brother as I kicked off my shoes, Dad, Dad! Where’s Dad? I did not have time to wait for an answer.

He’s in the living room came the shouted reply. I rushed past breathless but still in high excitement. I’ve just been up the shop and there’s a poster I said. My father aroused himself from a quick nap. What are you going on about boy? Sit down and get your breath back, then tell me what all the panic is about.

It’s a wrestling poster on the wall outside the shop, Dad. Wrestling, like we see on the telly. It’s coming here in three weeks’ time. Can we go, Dad?

Mother entered, followed by my three brothers, to see what all the fuss was about and I quickly but breathlessly relayed my very important news to all.

Ever since I could remember I had spent a couple of hours every Saturday afternoon sitting cross-legged on the floor while we as a family took part in that well known ritual of being glued to the television from four o’clock onwards watching World of Sport and in particular the wrestling. It wasn’t only our family; people all over Great Britain were doing the same. It was the one time of the week that could be guaranteed to find us all in the same room at the same time, watching the same programme.

It’s coming here Mum, to the Subscription Rooms in Stroud. Can we go? Please say yes. After a few words exchanged with Dad, Mum agreed, so I was dispatched back up to the shop with a paper and pencil to write down all the details needed in order to purchase our tickets. I guarded this bit of paper with my life, as I retraced my steps back home, although, at a somewhat slower pace.

Someone will have to catch the bus into Stroud and get the tickets, Dad said. Like a lot of families in those days, we never owned a car. It was agreed that Mum would get them when she was next in town.

Within a few days we were the proud owners of four tickets. When I enquired why only four, I was informed that my younger brother Alan was just a little bit too young to be going and that Dad would stay home and look after him. After all, said Dad, I’m happy just watching it on the telly. You all go with your Mum and enjoy yourselves.

That three weeks seemed to take forever to go by, and in the meantime, between carefully scrutinizing the tickets on the mantelpiece and studying the poster outside the village shop, I had learned off by heart the names of all the wrestlers, who they were fighting and indeed where they were from. Nearly five decades have passed since then but I still remember one or two of them. There was Big Chief Thunderbird vs Bronco Jack Cassidy. Then Reg Yates vs Jim Moser. OK, maybe it wasn’t Les Kellett or Jackie Pallo but it was still wrestling. For three whole weeks, I would read that poster on my way home from school.

I remember the day of the wrestling, well. It was the same day I was told off at school for not concentrating, but how could I when there was such an important event as wrestling to think about? I couldn’t talk to my school chums about it; they were busy talking about football. How football could possibly be of more interest than wrestling, I didn’t understand.

I couldn’t get home quick enough, and much to the amusement of my family, I was ready to go at 4.30 pm. It’s half past four, said Mum. The bus doesn’t come until a quarter to seven, we haven’t had tea yet. How could I think of food at a time like this? Of course, I did manage to eat my meal and spent the rest of the time pacing up and down the hallway.

Is it still there? said Dad. I stopped pacing. Is what still there? I answered.

The front door. You must have checked it a dozen times in the last half an hour.

Eventually we were on our way to the bus stop and at last, my big adventure had started. We arrived in plenty of time and I was overwhelmed by the number of people that such a small venue could hold. With my eyes wide open, I was glued to the huge ring in the middle of the room - and how near we were sitting to the action. The whole thing seemed like a fantastic dream, but a lot bigger than I was expecting. What’s more, it was in colour.

We took our seats and, as always, Dad had done us proud. Right in the front row, where we wouldn’t miss a thing. As the hall filled up, the Master Of Ceremonies entered the ring and made the first announcements over the microphone. Within a few minutes, the first two wrestlers entered the ring. My goodness! If I were ever going to stand a chance of being a wrestler, I would have to get a lot bigger than I was. I was only twelve but even at that tender age, I knew that I would have to get a spurt on, get a bit taller and fill out a bit. They were gigantic.

It wasn’t long before the shouting and cheering started and along with the noises from the wrestlers as they slammed upon the canvas and threw each other into the corner posts, you couldn’t hear yourself think.

I shouted and cheered with everyone else, occasionally looking at Mum to make sure that I still had her approval and wasn’t overstepping the mark. I needn’t have worried, she was too busy watching the action. The first two bouts were over (too soon for my liking) and the interval came, which was my cue to take my pen and autograph book and wait outside the changing room door. I soon had three of them and it was time to take our seats for the second half. I didn’t mind, as there would be time enough at the end to get more signatures. I made a mental note to look at the local paper next week. They were sure to have a write up and a few photos in there, after all, the reporter and photographer from the Stroud news and journal were not there for nothing. I would be sure to cut it out and put it on my bedroom wall.

The last bout finished and we had about 30 minutes to wait for the bus, so with Mum’s permission, I was back outside the changing room with autograph book and pen at the ready. I did well that night, eight wrestlers, the referee, the two seconds, Master Of Ceremonies, the timekeeper and (much to his amusement) the caretaker of the hall. Oh boy, my schoolmates were going to be envious in the morning. I was silent all the way back on the bus as I recalled everything, in great detail, that had happened that night.

When we arrived home, Dad was waiting up for us and had a pot of tea ready. So as I sat sipping this welcomed bevy I retold the whole episode to Dad. He just smiled and nodded as I explained that we had seen a real Red Indian fighting a real Cowboy in the ring before my very eyes. Did you all enjoy it? asked Dad as he glanced around the room and for the first time since arriving home I realised that nobody else could have got a word in. Yeah great said one of my two older brothers, except for Mum. She stifled a laugh. Let me guess Dad smiled. She made a fool of herself, didn’t she? We all laughed. My brothers sang out in unison she was totally embarrassing!

Mum rose to defend herself. Well that horrible man was hitting that nice one behind the referee’s back and I thought that was wrong.

Brother Pete spoke up. That was no excuse for hitting him with your handbag. Look at it. It’s all twisted.

I know, she said. I had a heck of a job to open it to get the bus fare out.

I well remember the hidden smiles as I announced to the family that one day I would become a wrestler.

Over the next year or so we saw many bouts of wrestling on a monthly basis at our local hall and even some of the well-known fighters of the day at the nearest larger Cheltenham Town Hall, including some of my heroes from the television. My autograph book was getting well used and full to the brim. I made a mental note to myself to include a new one on my Christmas list. Apart from Leslie Philips and Frankie Howerd, it was full of wrestlers.

At the age of fourteen I decided that what our village needed was a group of young would-be wrestlers. So off I went armed with several bits of old rope and much to my mother’s annoyance (once she found out) several bed sheets from the airing cupboard, and set out to find four suitable trees with the right distance between