Wrestling retirements are right up there with sunny bank holiday weather forecasts and UK rail travel in the sphere of 'things you wouldn't bet a quid on, let alone your house'. Indeed, seasoned pros have cried wolf so many times in hanging up their boots/singlets/novelty top hats that big valedictory speeches are met with incredulity, presumed as a prelude to a lucrative future comeback.
Cynical? Consider: Edge, Shawn Michaels, Ric Flair, The Undertaker (implied through folding), Mick Foley (repeatedly), Terry Funk (a running joke at this point). This is just the tip of the proverbial Goldberg (twice).
Basically, when a wrestler says they are retiring, give their words as much credence as you would Richard Nixon in a round of Call My Bluff.
For some reason, whilst these men and women are deified for their frequent fairweather retreats, treated as returning heroes when they once more strap on the spandex, a different set of wrestlers who simply never stopped, even once their body says they probably should, are mocked as washed-up has-beens. Heck, a whole Hollywood movie was produced based on this concept.
But why should they be ridiculed for doing what they love, albeit in jogging bottoms? We don't want to point fingers and laugh here (though we can't make any promises), and instead celebrate those fading stars from the past who, against all odds, continue to twinkle today.
Benjamin was born in 1987, and is still not dead. He variously enjoys classical music, old-school adventure games (they're not dead), and walks on the beach (albeit short - asthma, you know).
He's currently trying to compile a comprehensive history of video game music, yet denies accusations that he purposefully targets niche audiences. He's often wrong about these things.