From 1962 to 1972, aged 13-23, I lived as a teenager in Corby, Northants, where they used to have reasonable wrestling (Adrian Street, Steve Viedor) at the late, lamented Civic Centre.
Experience 1 (naff version): one night I was sitting in the audience when I heard a disembodied voice: the seats were separated by barriers formed from metal piping, doubtless from the local steelworks, and some cheeky kid had shouted down the hollow tube.
Experience 2 (not so naff); we were walking to town along a main road known colloquially as 'the bypass' when a worse-for-wear Jag screeched to a halt and a large, bearded driver asked “the way to the wrestling”. We easily told him the route, as we were headed there ourselves, but were quite surprised later that evening when one of the participants clambered into the ring for the third bout. My mate exclaimed: “Hey – it’s that bloke who asked directions!” None other than a young 'Bomber' Pat Roach, on his way up: I've always looked at wrestling as a way of seeing TV stars in the flesh!