We are live from the leisure centre, once more.
But less about that and more about WWE or whatever it’s called…
Unfortunately, the remote control batteries have run out and I have been unable to get the back off to replace them. I now have to stand for five minutes scrolling through 1,100 channels to get back to 0104 to listen to Women’s Hour.
I keep meaning to ask Dangerous to sort it out but I only remember when he’s at work. All things to do with remote controls are mans work, as far as I’m concerned.
Every time I turn the telly on, I am now greeted with American wrestlers. This morning, it was lady wrestlers.
They are amazing, big strong women, who pretend to kick the shit out of each other and make a living out of it.
The crowd of Americans go wild for it and they aren’t even little boys.
I keep expecting to see Donald Trump in the crowd whoop whooping along with all his gun toting compatriots.
I have tried in vain to let the boys down gently about it being a show, and not real fighting but they’re having none of it.
Their belief in the power of wrestling is absolute. It’s unwavering. They are absolutely in awe of it.
They get very upset when I mention that it’s just pretend. They then carry on kicking the living shit out of each other, even though it clearly states at the beginning of the programme to not kick the living shit out of your brother as you’ve not undergone specialist training.
I have been contemplating getting some tattoos, some hair extensions and doing some free weights so that they take more notice of me when I talk to them.
My wrestling name would be “Extreme Totes” and I’d be sporting some exciting new massive boobs and a six pack. I’m rather fancying some white lace up boots too.
I’ll get on the trampoline with the boys and take on all comers. I bet Dangerous would like it too…
I’m in preparation for the ball that’s not a ball, tonight.
I’ll be asking for advice on outfits shortly.