Wildly over-the-top performances, outrageous shape throwing, grandiose speeches, ridiculous statements, calculated confusion, dodgy outfits, branded merchandise, fighting and feuding and rows breaking out all over the place.
But enough about the presidential election.
And with the Dáil closed down for the summer, where better to reconnect with the histrionics and phoney cut and thrust of public engagement than at the WWE SmackDown?
Said nobody, ever.
READ MORE
Yet here we were, utterly bewildered, in Dublin’s 3Arena, gawping for almost three hours at the madcap antics of hugely famous professional wrestlers while a souped-up capacity crowd howled appreciatively at their scripted lines and choreographed moves.
A friend came along for moral support. He isn’t into WWE either but he agreed to go.
“I like anything camp” he declared.
SmackDown is huge and this episode was extra special to Irish fans because it was being broadcast live on Netflix from Dublin for the very first time.
Fuelling the pumped-up atmosphere was the presence of wrestling superstar John Cena – on the farewell trail before he retires after next Sunday’s “Clash in Paris” extravaganza.
Last week, the cheapest ticket available for the Dublin leg of this short European tour cost €366. The Liffeyside venue, with a capacity of up to 13,000 people, was sold out.
Devotees willingly added to the expense at the merchandise stalls where the T-shirts (€45) were flying out along with shiny championship belts (€35) and sweatbands (€25).
Dedicated fans of this bizarre world are forensic in their knowledge of its rules and moves, its stars and their back stories.
There were broadly three types of spectator: young children and teenagers enthralled by flawed heroes and pantomime villains and their laugh-aloud cartoonish violence; the bemused mammies and daddies forking out for the fun; and the adult afficionados – the largest group on the night and mostly men – thoroughly immersed in the scene.
It’s good, clean entertainment (foul language notwithstanding) and a special night out for the kids. The avid interest of the adult cohort is a little harder to fathom, given that the matches are part-choreographed and part-improvised and the wrestlers are part of a promotional soap opera forever running in the background.
The hardcore wore vintage T-shirts from wrestling slams past in the way rock fans wear old concert merch as a badge of honour. Viking beards were much in evidence.
We met sisters Saoirse (13) and Fiadh (10) with their parents Eva and Ross. The family travelled from the village of Tower, which is just west of Blarney in Cork. The SmackDown event was “a back-to-school treat” for the girls, said Ross.
They love their wrestling and have their own championship belts. “That’s the intercontinental belt” explained Saoirse. Her favourites include Dominic Mysterio and Cody Rhodes. Fiadh likes Jey Uso and Seth Rollins.
Do the wrestlers ever get hurt?
“Maybe sometimes, some of them,” said Fiadh.
Saoirse, who started in secondary school that morning, said she only likes it when an actual wrestler gets injured. Good call – the pros don’t usually get hurt but they make a marvellous meal out of pretending to be in agony.
Cody Rhodes is the current WWE champion and reigning King of the Ring. He was a no-show.
This was due to an unfortunate incident earlier this month when Drew McIntyre, “The Scottish Psychopath”, hit him a wallop with the title belt. McIntyre then targeted Rhodes with a signature “Claymore kick" to the head while he was writhing in agony.
They are now officially feuding.
Roady Codes, or whatever, is also away filming the new Street Fighter movie.
There are some big Irish stars in the business.
Veteran Sheamus opened the action with a singles bout against Kit Wilson, who was dressed in very fetching blue and silver sparkly tights with matching blue and white sparkly opera gloves.
The crowd gave Sheamus a deafening welcome.
These lads don’t just wrestle. They also talk a lot, mainly bad mouthing each other, often at considerable length.
Insulting rivals is called “heeling”. Commentators analyse this as much as the moves. Sheamus made a nice speech and said how great it was to be back in Ireland. Then he led the audience in a somewhat random chorus of “Ooh ah Paul McGrath”.
He has orangey red hair and wears little green wresting trunks. They have a circular motif on the front where Conor McGregor’s codpiece would be.
“I think it’s a Claddagh ring,” said our friend and lover of all things camp. “That must be sore.”
No. We now know it to be a depiction of the Ouroboros, an emblematic serpent of ancient Egypt represented with its tail in its mouth, continually devouring itself and being reborn from itself.
Kit was striking some lovely poses on the ropes.
“This is the gayest thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been to Sitges,” exclaimed our friend, referencing the Catalonian town. But it was early days and he had mostly changed his mind by the end.
Anyway, we thought Sheamus was done for when lovely Kit kicked him in the Ouroboros and he could hardly walk.
Somebody held up a poster.
“Sheamus for president!”
The chant went up. “Let’s go Sheamus! Let’s go Sheamus!”
So he punched Kit in the head.
Another poster went up.
“Pints!”
A flurry of pretend punches to the head. “One, two, three, four, five…” The crowd, well used to the drill, counted along.
“Dad, look, there’s Hulk Hogan,” shouted the little boy beside us. And there he was, a man in full Hulkster attire with the long white hair and white droopy moustache over a thick black beard.
There was a poignant moment to remember Hulk, who died last month. A member of the WWE Hall of Fame appeared on the big screen to say a few words. The retired star’s name flashed up: The Undertaker.
Entertainment all the way.
Thing is, each time the screen cut to an image of Hulk Hogan, the crowd booed. What was going on?
We asked the two young lads sitting behind us to explain. One said he may have been a racist or “something like that”.
Hulk Hogan left behind a leaked sex tape, strong charges of racism, a devotion to Donald Trump and all sorts of other controversial stuff before he died.
Not that the kids knew or cared. They were in WWE heaven, merched up to the eyeballs in sweatbands and belts and baseball caps and having a ball screaming their lungs out.
One of the biggest draws in professional wresting is Dubliner Becky Lynch. She didn’t disappoint. The fans gave her a thunderous ovation when she swaggered in. They cheered her to the rafters when she welcomed SmackDown’s first live broadcast from the city.
She led them in a chant of “We deserve it! We deserve it!”
Then she suddenly changed tack, berating the hometown fans for not appreciating her enough.
“You don’t deserve it. None of you deserve to be on TV!”
The crowd turned against her.
“Shut the f**k Up” they chanted, over and over.
We are not sure what happened after that because a load of women in spangly bombproof bikinis appeared and had a chaotic tag match with bodies flying in and out of the ring.
Four matches went out live between the trash talk and big-screen interruptions with adverts for future events and absent stars bigging themselves up.
There was one solo bout between multiple world champion Charlotte Flair, looking very glitzy and glamorous, and Piper Niven, who was got up like Miss Trunchbull from Matilda.
In a carefully worked upset, Piper won but only because she had an accomplice up to no good outside who scratched winsome Charlotte’s eyes when she was in the crab position with her face against the ropes and the ref didn’t see it.
John Cena made his big entrance midway through the show. The crowd roared, the children waved their homemade posters and gold belts. He tried to make a speech but he was interrupted by rival Paul Logan.
“F**k You Logan!” chanted the crowd.
“It’s good to be back in England” he sneered. “All you Irish are the same: drunk, washed up failures.”
A new chorus went up. One word. Rhymes with “banker”.
Cena wore long denim shorts, knee pads and his “The Last Time is Now” T-shirt. Half the audience was wearing one.
He looked like your da set to bust a few moves once the Voltarol on his knee kicks in.
Cena takes a dim view of Logan’s attitude to the art of pro wrestling.
“At Clash in Paris, you will either understand what it means to give up yourself to this business I love or I’mma beat the ever loving sh**e out of you.”
Then he administered an AA – attitude adjustment” – by slamming the impertinent upstart to the canvas.
Hooray!
Could it get any more exciting?
Jesse Lucas (7) from Ballinasloe was agog. His dad Cathal told us he got his championship belt from Santa last Christmas.
Jesse was engrossed. “I just love wrestling,” he told us. He particularly loves John Cena.
What was his highlight of the evening?
“When John Cena suplexed Logan Paul”.
Right so.
This is panto at its finest. Psycho Drew McIntyre makes an appearance – not to wrestle but to mock the absent Cody Rhodes after the belt-walloping outrage.
In a twist, megastar Randy Orton suddenly pops up in the ring out of nowhere to knock out the melodramatically oblivious Scotsman.
Terrible footage from backstage was shown at the end. Didn’t dastardly Paul Logan only sneak up on John Cena and lay him out with a punch? The final heart-wrenching shot saw the champ lying on the ground, out for the count.
Will he make Paris?
The scene was filmed twice because the WWE wanted a clearer view of the punch.
Don’t tell the children.
