Now I'm 64

A couple of weeks ago Mrs P and I took ourselves off to London for a few days to attend a sumo tournament. Almost without exception the people we told about our plans thought we’d gone crazy. You could see it in their eyes – “Why?” they wondered, “why would anyone pay good money to watch a load of semi-naked fat guys trying to beat each other up?” To which my response is this: please don’t criticise what you don’t understand.

Our connections with sumo

Mrs P and I first encountered sumo in the mid-1980s, when we were able to watch parts of a tournament on television during a vacation visit to Japan. We were intrigued, quickly spotting that this apparently crude and brutal sport is more subtle than it first appears, being rooted in at least 2,000 years of Japanese history and culture. We realised very quicky that if ever the opportunity arose we would like to get to know more about this unfamiliar, but strangely fascinating activity.

A few years later in 1991 the Japan Festival, which was held in London and across the UK, included the first-ever official sumo tournament to be held outside Japan. We managed to get tickets for one day of that event, which was held at the Royal Albert Hall, and so managed to watch sumo live and in the flesh for the first time.

Eight years later we returned for a second visit to Japan. We were staying with a friend who worked at the British Embassy, and through his connections were able to get tickets for one day of the September sumo tournament at the Kokugikan in Tokyo, the country’s foremost sumo arena. It was a wonderful, strangely exotic experience that we have never forgotten.

Although in recent years we have been able to follow sumo on television courtesy of broadcasts by NHK World, we assumed that we would never again get the chance to experience it first-hand. So, when we learned that Grand Sumo was to return to the Royal Albert Hall in October 2025, we were desperate to get tickets.

On the day that tickets went on sale Mrs P logged onto the ticket line the moment it went live, and found that there were already more than 1,000 people in the queue ahead of her! It was evident that the tournament was going to be a big success, and luckily, after a long wait and a lot of anxiety, she was able to bag tickets for the first two days of the five-day event.

Sumo’s history, rituals and rules

Sumo wrestling has an extraordinarily long history. Prehistoric wall paintings suggest that it evolved out of a ritual agricultural dance that was performed to pray for a good harvest. The earliest written references date from the early 8th century, and tell the story of a bout fought between two warlords – in the presence of the Emperor – in 23BCE.

From the 8th century, ritual sumo was carried out at the imperial court to predict the year’s harvest and to pray for abundance and prosperity. Beginning in the 12th century, it evolved into a form of combat training for samurai warriors. A few hundred years later, Japan embarked upon a long period of isolation from the outside world. Peace reigned supreme, and because samurai warriors no longer needed to fight, sumo wrestling began to develop into a form of entertainment, often as a way to raise money for the repair of shrines and temples. Thus was sumo professionalised.

In the mid-nineteenth century Japan opened up again to foreign contacts and sumo was perceived to be old fashioned, a relic of the past that needed to be relegated to the pages of history. However, in 1884 the Emperor organised a tournament which proved to be a turning point for the sport. Instead of appearing old fashioned, sumo was now seen as a national symbol, part of a shared heritage in which all Japanese people could take pride. And so it remains today.

Rituals and ceremonies abound in sumo, and help make it like no other sport I’ve ever seen. These include (1) the ring-entering ceremonies at the beginning of each tournament day, in which the wrestlers (called rikishi in Japanese) parade into the ring wearing elaborate aprons over their belts (mawashi); (2) the tossing of salt into the ring (dohyo) by the wrestlers to symbolically clean it; (3) the rinsing of the mouth with “power water” (chikara-mizu) before a fight, which is similar to the ritual carried out before entering a Shinto shrine; (4) the stomping of the feet by rikishi before a bout begins, which is a ritual to scare away demons; (5) the bow-twirling ceremony (yumitori-shiki), which is performed at the end of each day’s wrestling. Dating back to the 1700s, it symbolises both the winner’s dance and a spiritual cleansing; (6) the ceremonial clothing worn by the referee (gyoji), which resembles that of a Shinto priest.

The basic rules of sumo are very, very simple: it is a form of wrestling in which a contestant loses if he is forced out of the ring first, or if any part of his body except the soles of his feet touch the ground.  Having said that, there are no fewer than 82 recognised techniques (kimarite) that can be deployed to achieve a winning outcome. Sumo is a lot more complex and subtle than it appears at first glance.

Unlike other fighting sports, sumo does not have weight classes; so long as he stands over 167cm tall and weighs over 67kg any man can participate. One of the most exciting aspects of watching sumo is the “David versus Goliath” battles, fights between two wrestlers with vastly different builds. In sumo, strength and power are important, obviously, but so too are technique and speed. The Davids of the sumo world often deploy their own special skills to defeat their Goliath opponents, much to the delight of most neutral onlookers.

The Grand Sumo Tournament, October 2025

Mrs P and I attended the first two days of the Grand Sumo tournament, and had a truly memorable time. The Royal Albert Hall was packed with spectators, and the atmosphere was electric. While some audience members may have attended out of idle curiosity, it was clear that most knew and understood sumo. It was great to finally be able to sit alongside and to speak with a few people who share our interest in a sport that clearly baffles most Brits.

Outside the Royal Albert Hall, traditional Japanese banners advised passers-by that something special is happening inside.

The tournament attracted a good deal of coverage in the media and online. Wrestling took place in the evening, and earlier in the day the wrestlers – 40 of them, in total – got out and about visiting some of London’s tourist hotspots. If media reports are to be believed the wrestlers made quite an impression on the locals, and were widely perceived as “gentle giants”.

Big screens suspended from the roof of the Royal Albert Hall offered close-ups of the action if required.

And the wrestlers could turn up – unannounced, of course – just about anywhere, so you can imagine how thrilled Mrs P and I were when we bumped into two of them one afternoon in the Natural History Museum. Shodai (one of our favourite wrestlers!) and Mitakeumi even agreed for a hastily snapped photo.

Sadly, we couldn’t get tickets for the final three days of the tournament, but fortunately it was televised by the BBC so we managed to see every single match (there were 100 bouts spread across the five days). It was great to be able to watch the conclusion of the tournament on television, but so much better to watch the first two days live and in person in the Royal Albert Hall. It was a surreal experience to be present at an event that is so quintessentially Japanese in a venue that is so very British. Surreal, but wonderful too!

I do understand why, when it is casually viewed without any background knowledge, sumo may be difficult to appreciate. The culture shock must be palpable. But I do wish more Brits would give sumo a chance – they might even get to like it!

And the opportunity to watch this sport here in the UK may arise again quite soon. There is a lot of speculation in the media right now that, following the undoubted success of the October 2025 tournament, sumo may return to London in the near future. I do hope so, I really do.