Rock In A Far Place

I have spent the past couple of days leafing through the best-selling book in America. It is a handsomely-designed hardback, full of glossy pictures; it set me back more than #20 in Easons; and it features an exotic-looking creature eyeballing the camera on its front cover.
On the basis of that description, you might be forgiven for thinking that Foul Play had whiled away his weekend perusing one of Helmut Newton s photographic catalogues of sado-masochistic sex. No way, baby. The book in question is titled The Rock Says . . ., and it is the strangest thing I have set eyes upon in many moons.

For the uninitiated, The Rock is an American wrestler who, over the past 18 months, has risen spectacularly to the top of his profession. Now one of the biggest sports stars in the States, he occupies a niche somewhere between George Clooney and Krusty The Clown.
The Rock physically resembles one of those imposing Tongan gentlemen who usually occupy the lock-forward slots in the All Blacks pack. In his own way, though, he cuts an even more terrifying figure.
His autobiography outsold Salman Rushdie s new book two to one in its first week (not that much of a feat, admittedly; did you read that supposed rock n roll novel?), and has been hanging around the upper reaches of the New York Times best-sellers list like a bad smell for months.
The Rock is the main spearhead in the World Wrestling Federation s full-frontal assault on the hearts and minds of western youth and the wallets of their parents. A 27-year-old who holds a degree in speech communications, he earns over #2 million per annum. You can buy his CD, his PlayStation game and his stickers.
As a prelude to each fight, he gives the aforementioned thousand-yard-stare to the camera (known as The People s Eyebrow ), and solemnly vows to serve his opponent a double Rock Burger with extra cheese .
His trademark moves include The People s Elbow and The Rock Bottom . The latter, despite its name, does not involve The Rock sitting on his opponent s face, but is in fact some sort of judo-like manoeuvre.
The actual text of The Rock Says . . . (ghostwritten, of course), as distinct from the book as a marketing exercise, is largely the sort of banal-but-readable guff that anybody who has read the autobiographies of Dennis Rodman and Michael Jordan will be all too familiar with though in fairness, there s some good stuff about his teenage days as a gridiron star at the University of Miami, where he was literally fighting off the groupies with a stick.
Elsewhere, we learn of his blissfully happy home life with his wife, Dany; of his inexplicable fondness for country music; and of his predilection for $500 Versace shirts.
We have to wait until p. 195 for the first acknowledgement that the bouts he participates in owe more to ye olde Victorian farce than to proper sport. I m not suggesting that a guy will refuse to lose and therefore turn a work into a real fight. But there are many ways you can lose. You can go out there and bust your ass and make the people go fucking bananas, and then put someone over one-two-three! in the middle of the ring . . . or you can lay on your ass and let everyone know how unhappy you are.
This business that we are in is the business of theater, and it is a collaborative effort like any other theatrical endeavor. You are no bigger than the business decides to make you.
The Rock then tells a splendidly silly anecdote about one of his bouts against The Undertaker, which had been rigged to allow The Rock to win. The Undertaker decided against forcing The Rock to beat him via disqualification, or by hitting him over the head with a chair.
Instead, the funereal one allowed The Rock to defeat him by using one of his signature moves, the aforementioned Rock Bottom thus ensuring maximum exposure for The Rock and maximum entertainment for the crowd . By the standards of WWF etiquette, this made The Undertaker a really great guy.
I couldn t help but be moved by such an impressive gesture, writes The Rock (or his ghostwriter).

Watching snippets of WWF bouts over the weekend on Sky Sports, it became obvious that this is a more adult affair than the burlesque brawls of yore featuring Hulk Hogan and Andre The Giant: the moves are more savage, the banners in the crowd are more coarse and there is more simulated sexual activity on stage than before.
This strand of ribaldry is also evident in The Rock Says . . ., with its enthusiastic swearing and tales of The Rock s first sexual experiences (at 14, the local cops caught him going at it with an 18-year-old girl in a public park).
Despite this newfound lewdness, or probably because of it, such is the pulling power of this evil operation that it has even ensnared my otherwise healthy 17-year-old brother, who for some reason eats and drinks this stuff.
Surely, I said to him the other day, it leaves something to be desired in the way of dramatic tension, when every match is staged with a precision that would be the envy of Sir Cameron Mackintosh?
No, you don t know who s going to win each bout, he insisted firmly, unless you go onto the Internet and check.
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