Gurmula Wrestling

We’d done a gig. It was okay—not great, but okay. Afterwards, Johnny piped up: “Hey guys, parents are away, come back to my house.” So we piled into the van and headed back to Johnny’s.

We were all sitting in the lounge when somebody came up with the idea that I, being Commula, could wrestle JB.

“No, don’t be stupid. I’m not hating it. I’m not doing that.”

A few beers in, of course, I was doing that.

There we were on the front lawn at three in the morning, JB and me taking our stances, looking more like sumo wrestlers than anything else. I said, “Let’s not go mad. Let’s just entertain them.”

So we had a wrestle, to the accompaniment of “Hey, hey, look at her, funny, funny, funny.” I took JB down, and there was plenty of “Oh, Commula wrestling, woohoo.”

We stopped, went back inside and had a few more beers. That should have been that.

“Rematch. We want a rematch.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Okay.

Back out on the front lawn, I said, “JB, please, please don’t come to me too fast. I don’t know what I might do.” I’d been judo-trained since I was eight, and I knew I might react.

JB did exactly that. He came at me fast, and I put him on the floor. My elbow went into his ribs and I broke two of them.

Not my proudest moment.