Sentence The Fourhundredandseventyninth

Now, Father Mungo Macaneny would never have called Daphne's Corryvreckan grog, for it was pure nectar, even if not moonshine, and it stirred his memory and he was carried back to the last reunion with his old grappling chums and their stories of the heyday when the rule of omerta ensured that the

kayfabe of the wrestling game was strictly maintained by all participants, for there was a genuine cameraderie, with courtesy and respect, whether you were Jackie Pallo, Mick McManus, Gorgeous Joe Cornelius, of Muckle Murdo Macaneny; their trainers commanded almost filial love, the boys felt more like siblings than colleagues, with strong bonds between them and their quarrels in the ring –

pure show - regarded as a crucial element which they acknowledged with ready lief, knowing that millions were watching them at home on Saturday afternoons, on top of (and sometimes literally) the fervent fans who packed into sweaty halls, from Croydon to Battersa, East Ham to Fulham and beyond, every week, and universally acknowledging the truth: that every pantomime needs a hero, and a villain, and that Wrestling is Pantomime with the choreography of classical Ballet, and Mungo was fortunately 'One They Love To Hate' and that extra kudos gave him a new dimension which

increased his wages every week; and every week without fail, he landed in the lap of one of the knitters who crowded the ringside rows fervently berating the opponents of their heroes, screaming “behind you!” and who, if they got half a chance, would skewer the Nasty with their needles, but this before the days of Health and Safety at Work and before he experienced that same conversion as St Paul and became The Battling Priest for five years until he hung up his gloves and shook hands with commentator Kent Walton after the final live broadcast on 28th September 1985, and he now blinked away a tear and leered at the ladies!