At 6pm exactly, the first, and only, professional sumo dohyo anywhere outside Japan was finally ready. It had taken four days to build. The clay, shipped up from Kettering, where, the experts said, the earth had just the right consistency, had been shaped, sculpted, pounded into a stage, the six-tonne wooden canopy had been joined, and hung from the roof, the rice-straw bales had been beaten into shape with empty beer bottles, brought over especially for the purpose, and laid in a circle around the ring, the arena had been blessed by three priests, doused with sake, and strewn with salt.
Outside, an eager crowd was gathering underneath the streaming banners. There were corporate sorts, charging their bar bills to company expenses, a troop of diplomats, going to glad hand the Japanese ambassador at a VIP reception, and an awful lot of sumo super fans, some of them big men with beards, who first fell in love with the sport when it was on Channel 4 in the early 90s, some of them slight young women head-to-toe in Comme des Garçons, some middle-aged salarymen holding banners decorated with pictures of their favourite rikishi. Every one delighted, every one very excited.
