V for victory?

I've never been a fan of wrestling even though I know it's only play acting. And don't get me started on boxing! Blokes beating the shit out of each other isn't entertaining, or sport, or right! Peace and love, peace and love. Having said that I love the photo below. I saw it as part of Jeremy Deller's exhibition of last year, 'All That Is Solid Melts Into Air'. It's of a 'superstar' wrestler called Adrian Street who escaped from a Welsh pit town for the bright lights. He went back to the pit where his father worked (also in the picture) to show them how successful he was.

In our creative writing course last week we were asked by Andrea our tutor to write a piece on a picture in front of us. But it wasn't to be about the picture itself. It had to be about what happened just before the picture was 'captured' or just after. It had to be written in a matter of minutes. I chose to write about what happened after. Here is my piece:

Adrian returned to the pit of his father. In essence it was a two fingered exercise. But afterwards, after the photo shoot they all went down to the local, the pub. The prodigal son had returned. All the old men order their pints of Red Barrel. The star pays. He's done well for himself, 'is on the telly'. They are happy to let him pay. Dressed in his finery, the peacock crows, 'look at me' he seems to be saying, but none of them hear. They talk of wrestling, of money and inevitably of rugby football. Everyone's talking but no one listening. Adrian's body is his temple. Real men don't normally order orange juice. Well except at the weekend, for the wife you understand. Real men drink their pints and conform to the natural order of things. 'What's it like being famous?' A voice like all other voices asks but doesn't wait for the answer. The answer is never heard. Chalk and cheese it is. There's lovely!