Saturday Afternoon Spectacle: Remembering Wrestling at Nan's

There are certain memories that are inextricably linked to place and person. For me, one of the strongest is the specific scent of Nan's house and the crackle of the television broadcasting a world of larger-than-life characters in very small pants. The image of Big Daddy squaring off against Giant Haystacks immediately transports me back to those Saturday afternoons, perched on Nan’s sofa, utterly captivated by the drama unfolding on the screen.

Wrestling, particularly the kind shown on ITV back in the day, was appointment viewing at Nan's. It wasn't just a sport; it was theatre, a weekly saga of good versus evil played out by men who seemed impossibly huge and whose personalities were even bigger. And none were bigger, in every sense, than the legends themselves: the patriotic, blue-eyed hero Big Daddy and the menacing, hirsute villain, Giant Haystacks.

Watching it anywhere else just wasn't the same. At Nan's, the experience was amplified by the surroundings and the company. The tea would be poured, usually in those floral cups that only Nan seemed to own, and a plate of digestive biscuits or perhaps a slice of her famous fruitcake would appear. We'd settle in, the curtains probably drawn slightly even if it was a bright afternoon, creating our own little viewing sanctuary.

The wrestling itself was a source of endless fascination. The elaborate entrances, the theatrical poses, the seemingly impossible feats of strength, and the pantomime villainy – it was all part of the show. Nan, who in any other context was the picture of quiet composure, would get surprisingly animated. She’d tut at the referee's perceived injustices, cheer for Big Daddy with a surprising amount of vigour, and groan collectively with me when Haystacks employed some dastardly tactic. Her reactions were part of the entertainment, a live commentary track that made the viewing experience even richer.

Characters like Kendo Nagasaki, Mick McManus, and indeed, Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks, became as familiar as distant relatives. Their feuds and alliances were discussed with genuine interest, and the outcome of a match could genuinely affect the mood for the rest of the afternoon. There was a simple, uncomplicated morality to it all – the good guys wore bright colours and smiled at the crowd, while the villains scowled and cheated whenever the referee wasn't looking. It was easy to pick a side, and at Nan's, we were firmly in the Big Daddy camp.

Looking back, it wasn't just the wrestling itself that was so important, but the ritual. It was a shared activity, a guaranteed hour or so of focused time together, bonded by our collective investment in whether Big Daddy would successfully execute his signature splash or if Giant Haystacks would finally be brought down to size. These weren't moments of grand adventure or significant life lessons, but quiet, consistent pockets of connection and comfort.

In a world that feels increasingly complex, those simple Saturday afternoons at Nan's, filled with the spectacle of British wrestling, stand out as a time of innocent enjoyment and familial warmth. They are a reminder that some of the most cherished memories are forged in the most ordinary of settings, elevated by the presence of someone you love and a shared appreciation for a bit of theatrical grappling. The wrestling might have been larger than life, but the moments spent watching it with Nan were grounded in the most real and precious of things: time together.