A while ago I wrote about the "Best of ITV Wrestling" DVD which showed bits and bobs from the old days of World of Sport. Now, thanks to sharkwrestling, I’ve got hold of what purports to be the entire 1979 wrestling event held at Wembley Arena. It is a rough and ready compilation – sourced from VHS recordings (at least some of which date back to its original World of Sport transmission in 1979) – but it is a marvellous reminder that British wrestling wasn’t just a few hundred old ladies watching achingly slow bouts at a holiday camp. At times it was so much more – the first half of this DVD sees it covering the spectrum from legitimate sporting contest to a bizarre cross between an evening at Fat Fighters and a Nazi rally.

It opens with Pete Roberts vs Marty Jones for some trophy or other. It was a very good opener (though the only online reference I’ve been able to find for it suggests it took place in Croydon rather than at Wembley) with serious crowd heat. Jones – who was always the ultimate in mild-mannered babyfaces when I used to watch wrestling on ITV – was the dastardly heel. Pete Roberts – which was the name of one of the suspects in "Paul Temple and the Spencer Affair" – was the good guy and so naturally won the bout. At one point Kent Walton – commentator for over thirty years – describes the two wrestlers’ attire and adds "For those watching in black and white, Jones is the one stripped from the waist up". It isn’t funny but it is something that people of my age don’t remember. The other notable thing about this bout is that football scores flashed up on screen as and when goals were scored in featured matches. The moment Roberts scored the winning fall we were treated to the news that QPR had scored a sixth goal against hapless Burnley. A footnote about Marty Jones – I once read an interview with him where he said he had the chance to go to North America with the likes of Dynamite Kid and Davey Boy Smith. One of the Hart family offered him a spot in Stampede Wrestling but for some reason he didn’t go. The Marty Jones I knew (good worker, bad look) didn’t square with that but this Marty Jones could’ve gone Stateside and impressed people. But at the same time he’s still healthy while Dynamite is crippled and Davey Boy is dead.

Bout number two saw European middleweight champion, Mal Sanders face Spanish opposition in Chato Pastor. Normally you’d assume that anyone claiming to be Spanish would be from Battersea and wearing a sombrero. Pastor was a funny little balding man who didn’t look, sound or act Spanish in any way which is why I’m inclined to believe it was true. I’ve also never heard of him which, considering he was a damn good worker, suggests he plied his trade elsewhere. Walton acknowledged early on that he was surprised at how quiet the crowd were. I think the opening match gave the answer to that one – a good heel vs a good face gets heat. A sappy face vs a thoroughly nice face gets no heat. Pastor took the entire match. It was unbelievably one sided. Pastor must’ve been a big name back home to have been able to tell the bookers that he was taking everything if he had to lose. The modern verdict would’ve been that Sanders came away with the win but looking like a loser. His much more experienced opponent played him like a trumpet.

I want to mention another of Kent Walton’s strange moments during this match. Pastor had Sanders in a half-nelson / hammerlock and Walton went off on a speech about why Pastor didn’t just break Sanders’ arm. It was very unlike Walton to be so openly defensive about kayfabe and his claims that Pastor would be banned by international promotions if he deliberately broke his opponent’s arm were very odd indeed. But equally they were ahead of their time as I can imagine similar questions are asked nowadays about MMA – why don’t they just break each others arms? Kent Walton somehow managed to make a point that would be valid twenty five years in the future.

‘Absolutely forgettable’ is the best way to describe the third match – Tony St Clair vs Len Hurst. Well, obviously it wasn’t because I wouldn’t remember it but if you’re going to nit pick I’m going home. It was such an uninteresting match that Kent Walton again acknowledged the crowd weren’t into it by saying they were eager for the main event to begin. They wanted shot of this insipid match and so did I.

Then we came to the point where everything went mental. I would describe it as unbelievable but I’d already seen a bit of it on the ITV disc and knew something of what was to come. The camera lolled around the massive crowd for a bit. Then "Mighty Quinn" by Manfred Mann starts playing and a very polite riot starts. The camera man seems reluctant to move but eventually finds a man in a single-strapped green leotard pushing and posing his way through the audience. There was absolutely no security at all and if he hadn’t been backed up by what looked like a piece of 1970s architecture in a leather jacket (but which was actually Giant Haystacks) he could’ve been torn limb from limb. I have no idea what "Mighty" John Quinn did to engender such hatred but whatever it was was about a billion times more effective than Kurt Angle desperately insulting the troops in Iraq and Afghanistan in the hope that people will back John Cena against him. He even beat up a fan while he was walking round the ring (Haystacks waddled over to get a kick or two in as well). It wasn’t acknowledged by anyone so it might’ve been legit. Those were the days before lawsuits where people accepted a good kicking if they deserved it.

That took five minutes, Big Daddy took another five to get through a sea of supporters as "We Shall Not Be Moved" played over the Wembley sound system. He brought a pearly king and queen with him for some reason. Everyone was delighted to see him and there was even a huge "Big Daddy Rules O.K." banner which the owners got into just about every camera shot. Ten thousand people shouting themselves hoarse for a fat bloke who looked like he didn’t really want to be there. The ring announcer explained the special rules – no rounds, no time limit, no pinfalls, no submissions – just a ten-count to decide it. The cynic in me says this was so Big Daddy could win without having to leave his feet.

The match ran as follows – Quinn charges and is blocked, Quinn charges and is blocked, Quinn whips Daddy into the ropes (we see Daddy run – it was like watching a first world war tank looking for a space in Tesco’s car park), Daddy knocks him over, Daddy bodyslams Quinn, Daddy bodyslams Quinn, Daddy bodyslams Quinn, Daddy whips him into the corner, Daddy does a strange sort of backdrop-cum-Samoan drop, Quinn sells like he’s dead. Daddy wins in one minute and forty two seconds.

The crowd were in hysterics. The ring filled with fans. They were cheering like mad people (they roared when the ring announcer called for a stretcher for Quinn). By the time he was carted off by the St John’s ambulance people the entire ring was packed. Daddy thanked the fans for coming and that was that. It was doubtless the greatest moment of his career. Quinn would probably look back with at his 1968 Madison Square Garden bout with WWWF champion Bruno Sammartino with greater fondness.

This was hysteria – grown men and women going absolutely crazy for a simple battle of good verses evil. Good won. Everyone went home happy.

The second half of the show is still to come.