Saturday night's alright for fighting...

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The husband and I are not the biggest of television watchers.  A little bit of Corrie, a smidgeon of Gogglebox and a two week session of Britain's Got Talent (only because one or more children are usually around when that's aired) but there is one programme which we never miss.  Evenings are arranged so as not to interfere with a single minute, and both of us are showered and pyjamad up three minutes before the opening titles.

This has been our Sunday evening for the last couple of months while Poldark has been gracing our screens, and many a happy evening has been spent gazing lustily at the scenery (ahem ahem....).  Last Sunday saw the final episode of the series (I absolutely refuse to call it a 'season') and as the credits rolled, the husband looked at me and said, 'Sunday evenings will never be the same again'.

As the first Sunday evening without Captain Ross loomed, I wondered what our 9.00 entertainment would be.  Should we watch a rerun of something, or check out Netflix? (Never again will I start a box set as the last time I did, I lost three months of my life courtesy of a middle aged drug dealer with a daft hat).

As it was, I didn't manage to plant my derriere on the sofa until 9.15 on Sunday night, thanks to the abundance of watering which had to be done, and as I got myself sorted (cup of tea on the right, two digestives on the left) I asked the husband what we were watching.

He didn't reply straightway, but staring at the television, my eyes widened.

Was I really watching three ladies (I use the term loosely, they were female as far as I could see) dressed in very little, and were all writhing on the floor of a boxing ring while some bloke in a dress shirt and bow tie tried to keep order. 

'Wrestling's back on', said the husband with rather too much of a pleased tone of voice.  'Takes me right back to the 1970's that does.  We missed this on Saturday night'.

Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't remember Big Daddy or Giant Haystacks wearing fishnets and  bustier (of ample proportion I must say), being fully made up, and worrying whether their hair extensions are still attached.  This was like watching a couple of drunken trollops on a Saturday night in Gateshead, who, having had their fair share of Babycham, discovered that both of them were being 'courted' by Kevin who works in the meat-packing factory.

As the husband said, Sunday nights will never be the same again...


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