opening lines:
The one-eyed man stood on the corner. He was short, but yet a tremendous figure under the lamplight.

This is disappointing. Wrestling is a perfectly fine theme for a novel, particularly an exploitation novel, but we waste far too much time here in other worlds entirely, including a lengthy digression on the trade directory listing scam, and accounts of fixing the odds on greyhound racing. Maybe the intention was to point out that, while wrestling may be corrupt, it’s no more so than other areas of human life. Or maybe it’s just that Johnny Morgan wasn’t up to much on the writing front.

Anyway the stuff about the wrestling itself is what you’re after, and again I fear you’re not going to come away satisfied. It does emphasize that – even if the results are pre-fixed – that doesn’t mean the fighters aren’t superb athletes taking enormous risks with their bodies. But surely that’s hardly startling.

I am sorry. I wanted this to be good, ‘cos I’m a big fan of old school wrestling, but it simply ain’t.

Bert Assirati, to whom this book is dedicated, on the left;
Johnny Morgan is at the receiving end of his attentions.

My thanks go to Mike Hallinan, the offical biographer of Bert Assirati, who confirmed for me that that is Johnny Morgan in the photo, and tells me it was taken at the Seymour Hall, London, one of the three bouts that the two men fought. Assirati, in case the name isn't immediately familiar, was one of the greatest wrestlers of the 20th century, while Morgan, it appears, was a bit of an opportunist who was never much cop at the grapple game. Mr Hallinan adds the sad detail that Morgan committed suicide when he learnt that he had cancer. I am grateful for the information and would like to direct you to this site:

Bert Assirati homepage

ARTISTIC MERIT: 2/5
ENTERTAINMENT VALUE: 2/5
HIPNESS QUOTIENT: 2/5

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