Mr Perfect, The Rock and Chris Jericho, amongst so many others, refined the art of being an arrogant muscled diva to a tee. Love them or hate them, badass wrestlers strutted out with enough swagger to unnerve the most steeled of modern queens. If there was one thing that sent the crowd wild, it was an unchecked ego. He is a true inspiration to all the sequin-wearing, ball-grabbing, manly men out there. The “dirtiest player in the game”, Ric Flair, somehow managed to swan around in the most fabulous robes, low blowing and grapefruit clawing his way through the roster without anyone batting an eye-lid.
There is one in every generation, whether Liberace or Elton John, who is so outrageously camp as tits, yet is able to fall under the radar and break the hearts of women around the world with the revelation that he plays for the other side. If the phrase “Hiding in Plain Sight” hadn’t become so synonymous with the Jimmy Savile scandal, the character of Ric Flair would be the living, barely breathing incarnation of it. For me, the stand-out fashion faux-pas falls squarely on the Nature Boy himself, Ric Flair. Whilst undoubtedly constructed to manipulate the prejudices of the baying mob through racial profiling beyond all sense of decency, there was a man and a style to float everyone’s boat, as well as a number of hell-no fashion moments. The range of styles and tastes catered for by the diversity of wrestlers and their wardrobes was second to none. Whilst wrestling evidently did not turn me gay, here are 10 reasons why it may have made my destined path to wooftery a little clearer at the time: and The King’s commentary, provide enough raw material to launch a whole number of PhDs into the contortions and hypocrisies of masculinity in 90s America. However, that’s a different article. With the benefit of hindsight, the frocks, the jocks, the egos and the pantomime, all set to the dulcet tones of J.R. This was a hyper-masculine space where long before Miley Cyrus was licking sledgehammers, HHH was breaking bones with them.Īnd yet, looking back, it seems the gayest thing in the world! My modern day self just can’t reconcile how watching muscled-up men in underwear grappling and beating each other into a sweaty mess, could have reaffirmed the masculinity of an entire generation. Within this world it didn’t seem at all peculiar for 11 year old me to be holding up a sign saying WE WANT PUPPIES and wolf-whistling at Debra. The crowd would rise up as one to cheer Stone Cold, curse the establishment heels, and mock the token effeminate characters who strayed from the norm.
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It’s only when you go to these live shows, full to the brim with sweaty middle-aged men and their children, baying for blood and tits, that you feel truly part of the manly mob.
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In a time before social media, where dial-up internet was at the forefront of technology, our weekly dose of man on man action, followed by the sneaky free 10 minutes of Channel Babestation once the parents had gone to bed, granted boasting rights for the week, and helped to construct our LAD mentality. All the hard kids in school would watch it without fail, then come in on Monday morning to clothesline-from-hell the rest of us and talk shop. At the time it was the height of youthful masculinity.
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Each Friday night, in the absence of a social life, 11 year old me would settle down in front of the TV with my dad to watch WWF (now WWE) Raw is War.