Wrestling @ The Arches, 11 Feb

He's a sly dog, this Rob Drummond. Having spent ages telling every interviewer that there's no real intellectual justification for his love of wrestling, he comes along and throws up a sophisticated fusion of squared circle action and introverted performance art.

Well, I am not sure that that's entirely fair, Margaret. After all, we can't expect artists to reveal the foundations of their work to the critics. Can you imagine what we'd say if he'd suggested that he was using the apparently kitsch modern sports entertainment to externalise his own conflict about the importance of violence in defining masculinity? Besides, art is supposed to be the lie that tells the truth. I'm not holding him to account for that.

You may have a point, Gareth, but look at the evidence. The first half is a sincere trawl through Drummond's failures as a tough guy. Much as I enjoyed hearing about him get a kicking off an eleven year old and getting spat on in Subway, it looked like a typical piece of Young Glasgow Contemporary Theatre Team: self-obsessed, a monologue, insular and painfully personal. Then he gets on the wrestlers, and the ass-kicking begins.

It's an exciting moment when the stage opens up into the wrestling ring, to be sure. And the ability of the wrestlers was stunning. I noticed you seemed very keen on the physique of young Joe Coffey there, Margaret, and the trainer Damo certainly had his admirers.

If Drummond was trying to say something about what a man ought to look like, he succeeded there. From how he sold the show, that sort of eye candy would be appropriate. But that wasn't what he did, was it? He managed to invest wrestling with the sort of resonance associated with Greek tragedy - one of the wrestlers was his accusing conscience, a secular Satan - and Drummond's final triumph is fairy-tale fantasy.

Nice confusion of comparisons there, Margaret. 

Wrestling is quite literally a game of two halves, and for all his protests, Drummond has pulled together two very different art forms in a thoughtful process. And for all his self-deprecating chat, the whole thing is a bit of showing off. And maybe that's what wrestling is about: a male display of power. Like a peacock or a very obscure mating ritual.

Well, I felt something very different. In those last scenes, the big ruck, what came across was how wrestling is about both contestants working together. That Mark Brown article that had the headline Spandex Ballet said it best. Both winner and loser, heel and baby-face, are dancing together to create something beautiful, Wrestling isn't about fighting, it's about collaboration.

Brilliant, Gareth. End with a contradiction. It's like the show itself: the tension between Drummond's belief that talking is better than rucking - hell, he's a son of the manse - and his desire to be Cactus Jake...

That's Cactus Jack, Margaret. And so what? In the end, it is great entertainment, and there's obviously enough in there for us to get drunk on analysing the subtext.