Who Is That Masked Man?
In his heyday Kendo Nagasaki – brutal, silent and with a hint of Samurai savagery – was the most celebrated British wrestler of them all. As his final bout looms, the man with the sword gives up some of his secrets.
Observer Sport Monthly, October 2001
Kendo Nagasaki, a man who has earned fame by beating other men until they cry for mercy, is walking around Finsbury in north London in search of a place where he can have his photograph taken. He has short brown hair, a narrow face with a prominent and slightly pinched nose, and deeply set eyes that squint in the sunlight. He wears a dark jacket and black trousers, newly shined shoes, a nice fat metallic watch that he consults to find he is a little early. He has three men with him – his manager, his driver, and his website designer. I recognise his manager first, and call out his name: ‘Lloyd!’ At this moment, Kendo takes something from his pocket. It is a soft, worn woollen face mask, black with white vertical stripes, and he pulls it on with alarm. It tightens at the back with those little pop-stoppers you find on baseball caps. He looks menacing, he causes the traffic to slow. On this balmy Wednesday afternoon he believes it is as important as ever to keep up appearances.
Kendo and his friends find the photographer’s studio and move straight for the changing room. This was one of Kendo’s two stipulations: a separate changing area screened by a curtain. The second was a request for photo approval, which might seem a strange demand from a person who wears a mask. ‘He’s not as young as he was, and wants to make sure he looks good,’ his manager explained. ‘He doesn’t want to blow the image at this stage.’ The picture approval was modified to a permission to view the Polaroids.
He emerged from the changing area looking like a man from Japan, only taller. He had a black and gold metal visor, beneath which he had changed the black mask to red. He had a red and silver tunic, red vest and tights, high lace-up boots, a polished breastplate and in padded gloves he held an elegant sword. In truth, it could have been anyone in there, but I knew it was Kendo because he spent the next three hours without speaking a word.
British wrestling was really something in the Seventies and Eighties, though these days one struggles hard to imagine how. Many millions watched it on ITV’s World of Sport on Saturday afternoons, not all of them apoplectic grandmothers. Shopkeepers complained that their customers vanished when the wrestling began at 4pm, and promoters said that the bout before the FA Cup final was seen by more people than the final itself.
A few great characters emerged: Mick McManus, Jackie Pallo, 40-stone Giant Haystacks, Big Daddy, Les Kellett, The Royal Brothers, Peter and Tibor Szakacs, Rollerball Rocco, Adrian Street. Some of these people were so good at their job, so convincing as both athletes and actors, that it was sometimes hard to believe they were faking it. These days it seems preposterous to think of professional wrestling as anything but combative soap opera – even the American executives behind WWF acknowledge this now – but in its British heyday there were a lot of people who were sure that a Boston Crab was the pinnacle of legitimate sporting prowess.
The best wrestlers had a history, or at the very least a story. This being a simple world, the stories were often reduced to the level of a gimmick. Mick McManus didn’t like having his ears messed up and would make his point by moaning ‘Not the ears, not the ears!’ Jim ‘Cry Baby’ Breaks used to throw a tantrum like a two-year-old if things didn’t go his way. A riled Johnny Kwango and Honey Boy Zimba could be guaranteed to headbutt. ‘Ballet Dancer’ Ricki Starr twirled like a dancer. Big Daddy entered to the chant of ‘Easy! Easy!’ Adrian Street, a Welsh womaniser, pretended he was gay. Catweazle wore a brown romper suit and acted like a yokel. Deaf and dumb Alan Kilby always got confused by not hearing the bell. And Dropkick Johnny Peters did something special with his feet.
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