When commentator Kent Walton uttered the words, ''Greetings, grapple fans'' to the nation for the last time in December 1988 in his trademark transatlantic, smooth-as-treacle burr, it marked the end of a 33-year TV love affair with professional wrestling, for which Walton had been the voice, anchor, and accidental conscience.

His death at the age of 86, marks a passing just as significant. He and the end-of-the-pier entertainment he came to represent were footnotes of popular culture and social history from the beer-and-sandwiches greyness of unreconstructed, post-war Britain.

Every Saturday afternoon at 4pm from 1955 onwards, FA Cup Finals permitting, Walton sat ringside, his dulcet tones becoming the Greek chorus of this most black and white of dramas. Back-street renditions of good and evil were performed by larger-than-life characters from northern English towns, who, even clad in ridiculous nylon trunks, remained burly enough and ugly enough to look like the mongrel offspring of a nightclub bouncer and a brickie's mate. They became outlandishly named heroes and villains, gladiators all, with enough showmanship to appeal to ferocious, brolly-wielding grannies to cause them considerable grief if they got too close. When they got

on the ''box'', a nation was

captivated.

Walton's louche, avuncular, and knowledgeable air gave proceedings a touch of class, though it wasn't enough to prevent then incoming head of ITV Sport Greg Dyke scrapping his station's exclusive coverage on the grounds of it being too low-brow. In truth, wrestling may have been past its 1960s and 70s heyday, when even royalty flocked to sell-out shows at London's Royal Albert Hall, but it was still a far cry from the grotesque white-trash cartoon titillation of the American ''sports entertainment'' version that replaced the British seaside postcard take on choreographed violence.

Walton's defining role in all this came about by accident. Originally from Canada, Kenneth Walton Beckett had been an RAF fighter pilot before hosting Cool For Cats, one of the earliest of TV pop music shows. This may or may not have had something to do with his connection to the top light entertainment dynasty, the Grades. Walton had run away with the wife of Leslie Grade, brother of Lew and Bernard, who between them had a stranglehold on commercial British television.

Walton had been doing football commentaries for Ken Johnstone, head of sport at Rediffusion. Johnstone left Walton a message to call him - and told him he would begin his new post the following Wednesday, despite never having seen a wrestling match in his life.

Promoter Johnny Dale set up a whirlwind tour of venues for Walton, who carried out further research with the help of veteran grapplers Mike Marino and Jackie Pallo. After a few weeks, not only was Walton

au fait with all the jargon, but he'd invented a few terms of

his own.

Pro wrestling in Britain was a small world which Walton, from his place within the inner circle, defended against tabloid accusations of the violence being fake, or of matches being rigged. His commentaries were text-book studies in empathy - or conspiracy - with a secret society.

''I-yi-yi-yi-yi,'' a grave sounding Walton would exclaim if someone had been slammed on the canvas particularly hard. ''Let's see if we can get a close-up of those extraordinary eyes,'' he'd say with hushed reverence, as masked mystery man Kendo Nagasaki, who'd cle-arly discovered sheer red contact lenses, leered imperiously at the camera.

In the early 1970s, Walton had also developed a sideline as a film producer, in what passed then for an industry in Britain, where Carry On pictures had given way to the saucy antics of the Confessions series and even grubbier sexploitation derivatives. Together with Hazel Adair, creator of Crossroads and Emergency Ward 10, Walton made a series of simple-formula romps involving feckless young men and hordes of sex-starved housewives.

Protective of his clean-cut image, and with pro wrestling's cloak-and-dagger flourish un-doubtedly rubbing off on him, Walton developed a secret identity for this venture. In the movies, he was Elton Hawke, which, give or take the odd ''H'', was an anagram of the commentator's already acquired name. Some of these films occasionally surface on TV on Channel five, and, apart from being truly dreadful, like TV wrestling, remain as fascinating artefacts of a British society where aspirations remained so low that a bad impression of glamour was all that was on offer.

As the 1980s ushered in a more obviously showbiz era spearheaded by the likes of Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks, Walton still favoured the sport's classic journeymen gymnasts; World Lightweight champion George Kidd, ageing funny man Les Kellett, cauliflower-eared pantomime villain Mick McManus, and of course Mike Marino, who'd first, quite literally, shown him the ropes.

In dealing with cancer, Walton seemed to have inherited something of his forbears' never-say-die, show-must-go-on stubbornness. His wife,. Lynn, whom he married 52 years ago, and son, Lee, knew that he was ill, but Walton insisted that it was old age. Only three days before he died did he tell them the harsh truth.

It was one final sleight-of-hand for a man whose voice was better known than his face, but whose distinguished authority and turn of phrase came to define an era that Saturday afternoon sports television will never see the likes

of again.

Kent Walton, wrestling commentator; born August 22, 1917, died August 24 , 2003.