En Passant: Home alone with the WWE

DORIS went to visit daughters Gladys and Mavis in Gauteng last week, and was away for a few days leaving me alone with Teaspoon the parrot, who holds the world title for being the Parrot With The Smallest Vocabulary Ever.

So it was man alone rattling around our home, and boys, I have to tell you again that I left the loo seat UP the whole time (except obviously when in use) and civilisation as we know it did not crumble. And then having decided to live dangerously, I thought, Stuff it, in for a penny in for around R19.45, and replaced the loo roll, fitting it into the wall-mounted bracket THE WRONG WAY ROUND!

And still civilisation did not crumble, although we did lose the rugby to New Zealand, which some people seem to believe is as bad as having barbarians at you gate. But I don’t think that our loss to new Zealand had anything to do with toilet rolls, although we did play “kak” in the last 20 minutes.

Being alone at home does not bother me in the least; I am not the sort of man who cannot boil an egg without burning the water. When Doris is away I do not live and survive on takeaways. I know my way around Spar and grocery shopping is not an ordeal for me. In fact, don’t tell Doris but I think I might even enjoy shopping, with the one proviso that I don’t have to stand in a long queue at the tills.

And I know my way around our kitchen. The day Doris left I made myself (and Teaspoon) a large pot of lamb curry, and that sorted out lunch and supper for two and a half days. Nah, cooking really doesn’t bother me; I think I might even enjoy it too.

With Doris away I could watch all the WWE wrestling I liked over the weekend. She detests it, says its stoopid, arranged, all an act.

Of course it is, I say, it’s a scripted melodrama in a very old-fashioned sense, with heroes and villains, and a crowd who understand this, so they cheer the heroes and boo the villains and are entertained in the process.

A melodrama is defined by Merriam-Webster as “a work (as a movie or play) characterized by extravagant theatricality and by the predominance of plot and physical action over characterization”. That is WWE wrestling.

Dictionary.com defines melodrama as “a dramatic form that does not observe the laws of cause and effect and that exaggerates emotion and emphasizes plot or action at the expense of characterization”. That’s WWE wrestling.

The Free Dictionary.com defines melodrama as “A drama, such as a play, film, or television program, characterized by exaggerated emotions, stereotypical characters, and interpersonal conflicts”. That’s WWE wrestling.

That’s why it’s called WWE – World Wrestling Entertainment. It’s entertainment, which WWE admitted back in 1989. They did this deliberately to avoid the taxes that the wrestling controlling bodies wanted to levy. “No, you can’t,” said ol’ Vince McMahon, “these are not legitimate sporting contests.” It was admitted that the whole point was entertainment, that there was a story-line which was scripted and the matches, like dancing, were choreographed.

So, there’s physical action, and boy, is there physical action. It may be choreographed but there’s no denying the toughness of the participants, and the risks they take to entertain us. “Don’t try this at home!” they warn us, and Doris and I don’t.

There’s exaggerated emotions, and you have to remember that these athletes are primarily athletes, so when the camera goes into a close up of a really irritated Ryback, you can’t realistically expect the portrayal of irritation as you get from Richard Gere, apart from the similar jaw-clenching.

And stereotypical characters there are aplenty, with interpersonal conflicts to drive the story-line. There’s the All American boy, more American than even the Americans, John Cena; there’s the somewhat sad giant The Big Show; the one-time Hillbilly, interbred family of loonies Bray Wyatt, Luke Harper and Erick Rowan, each of whom individually have their own off-centre stage characters; there’s Dean Ambrose whose portrayal of someone not quite “lekker” makes you believe that actually he’s not quite “lekker”; there’s lover-boy Dolph Ziggler.

There’s Roman Reigns who’s like a slightly misunderstood biker, the sort of biker who collects bonsai trees in his spare time; there’s Sheamus the Irishman who’s currently trying to reinvent his character; there’s a bunch of Mexicans who tend to wear masks and shiny trousers; and there’s The Undertaker who if I’m ever in a bar fight I’d like at my side. And there are many others, and many others who have moved on or retired, real characters in their own right.

I have to tell you that if I had to do it all over again, I would not be a WWE wrestler. Once upon a time I used to fancy myself as a bit of an actor, but to act that you’re being beaten to a pulp, while being beaten to a pulp, seems to me to be an oddly painful way of earning a living.

Anyway, Doris is back this week, so it’s loo seat down please. She doesn’t watch much wrestling but she might disregard the advice and try some fancy move at home.