Getting Handsy at London's First Feminist Arm-Wrestling Competition

Saturday night in London: Everyone's dressed up to the nines and off to drink overpriced pints, but I'm not following them. Still a little hungover from my Friday night white wine binge, I'm headed to Bermondsey for a feminist fight night hosted by the female artists' collective The Sisters of Perpetual Resistance as part of their show, The Art of Nuisance.

I arrive in Bermondsey at 7pm and find the Sisters' HQ in the shadow of the Shard skyscraper and a stone's throw from the Tate Modern. The place is easy to spot, thanks to the blood-red, ragged pennants zig-zagging overhead.

The Sisters describe themselves on their website as "an elusive group of militant art activists." Aligning their work with the disruptive techniques of Pussy Riot and SlutWalk, they say are "committed to the practice of joyous dissent and peaceful resistance." They work under the wing of activist and artist Alannah Currie, who was also in early 00s new wave and pop band the Thompson Twins.

"Everybody was sat around a table wondering what we could do," Currie says, "and somebody—as a joke—said, 'What about intergenerational feminist mud wrestling?' We decided that was going a bit far, so we went for arm-wrestling."

I ask her what she hopes people will take away from tonight. "That's there are lots of different feminisms, feminismismisms [sic]. There's not one rule, there's no rules." Apart from, hopefully when it comes to the actual wrestling, I say. "It's a joke, you know… Like, fight it out for who's the best feminist, but obviously there's no such thing. We didn't want to make dead art on walls, we wanted to do something."

The Sisters of Perpetual Resistance include women such as Iranian-British artist Sarah Maple, whose anti-rape cloak received worldwide media attention in recent weeks; London-based Rebecca Jackson, whose work includes a Judy Chicago-esque wearable tablecloth; and community performance artist Meg Mosley and her alter-ego Megastar, a parodic 'lipstick feminist' in pink sequins and false eyelashes. The work of these anarcho-artists asks you to get involved, whether that's by taking a selfie with Megastar or binding yourself into Jackson's tablecloth. It's designed to be a nuisance; to get in your way, to make you look.

Everyone attending tonight has been ordered to come dressed as their favourite feminist and be prepared to arm-wrestle. The prize at stake? The title of 'Best Feminist,' and a champion wrestling belt made of Barbie dolls.

I walk through the door into the venue where a wrestling ring, complete with padded pillars and ropes around the edges, has been set up. At the front of the room, DJ Miss PG Tips blares a soundtrack of strong-armed female pop stars: Beyonce, Rihanna, Nicki Minaj, Miley Cyrus and M.I.A on a loop.

Sarah Maple and Meg Mosley, who are hosting, introduce themselves to the crowd as Mapes and Megs ("hashtag Megs and Mapes"). They tell the excitable crowd that the competition will pitch a series of "contemporary fourth wave feminists" against one another, followed by a series of "super-rel [relevant] second wave feminists" against one another.

"Welcome to the Feminist Wrestling Federation. We have a logo, we are totally legit," says Megastar, dressed in a pink sequin bikini with a blonde wig, false lashes, and a trailing pink feather pony's tail strapped to her waist. "I'm your ring girl and I'm super happy to be, like, pretty and pink, but I'm totally a fourth wave feminist. I'm totally informed and cute."

Mapes picks up. "I'm your referee, and I have the whistle of authority," she barks, blowing said whistle and pinging her red braces before pointing a laser pen at a projection of a Powerpoint presentation. "We do have some rules for this evening," she says. "Of course, we are all feminists and you're free to do what you like—but we want to control that under our very strict guidelines."

The laser pen flickers across the screen. "The first rule of the Feminist Wrestling Federation is we DO NOT talk about Feminist Wrestling Federation—women being silenced yet again. We do talk about absolutely everything else because it's all about choices, hashtag everyday feminism. Third if someone says stop, listen. Because it's all about consent. Hashtag consent forevs."

Meggy and Mapes takes their audience through the feminists they can volunteer to wrestle as, showing us the face masks made for each one. They screen a YouTube clip of Debbie Harry arm-wrestling one of her mates in the back of a New York taxi; "I'm gonna crush you, I'm gonna crush you," Harry says on screen.

"Just think about that when you're with your opponent," Mapes says. Nervous laughter crackles through the room.

And so, it begins: First up, a feminist activist dressed as Miley Cyrus versus Beyonce, a 6"3' guy with a man bun who came dressed as his favorite feminist, Frida Kahlo. Chants of "Miley, Miley, Miley" erupt as the contestants take their places. I hear someone say behind me, "It's not fair—he's so tall, he'll beat her."

Miley and Frida-as-Beyonce lock arms. Their expressions are hidden behind their masks but you can see them both quivering, determined not to give in. For a second Miley looks like she's going to lose as her arm starts to slowly give way, sliding towards the table. Then, suddenly, she pulls it back, slamming Bey's hand down all the way.

Miley survives to fight another round. Next up for the challenge: Emma Watson. "Eye of the Tiger" plays as the crowd chants again, "Miley, Miley, Miley, Miley!" Once again, Miley successfully beats her opponent; Watson slinks out of the ring, defeated. Miley looks exhausted.

"Next up—queen of the young feminists, Kim Kardashian, " Mapes calls out over the tannoy. "Who wants to be Kimmy?" The crowd are reluctant; nobody wants to take on the ruling chapion. "I've pulled my muscle, so it's OK, you'll win!" Miley says, unconvincingly. "I'll do it!' a petite girl cries out from the back of the room, making her way into the ring.

"On your marks," Mapes calls out, "get set, let's wrestle!" Miley and Kim lock arms in a clash of the titans. Kim seems to be the new favourite, with screams of "Kim, Kim, Kim!" erupting in the room. It's over quickly and painlessly. Miley finally folds like a concertina, to the boos of the crowd.

The final battle of the first round features the indomitable Kim taking on Janelle Monae, but it seems nobody wants to take on Kardashian. Eventually a reluctant volunteer steps forwards as fresh meat for the reigning champion. Screams, cheers, whoops… It's back and forth, back and forth. It could go either way. After about a minute, Janelle pushes forwards for the win, and Kim—perhaps complacent from her recent victory—turns jelly-like and wobbles off the podium. Newcomer Janelle is officially established as the queen of contemporary feminism.

Feeling a bit sick—partly due to my hangover from the night before, partly because I'm nervous about the prospect of being asked to wrestle in the next round—I quickly head to the bar to grab myself a drink.

The man standing next to me at the bar looks like he might have walked in by accident. "Actually, I am just on vacation here, I'm a tourist," Roman tells me."I'm from a small town in the Alps, Austria. It's so great to be here—this is totally crazy and I like it very much." He tells me he prefers feminists of the past. "Feminists today are too serious you know, I like Gertrude Stein… The pioneers."

Megastar announces the second round of wrestling on the mic. "On your marks, get set, let's wrestle. Come on, ladies!" Germaine Greer swings under the ropes to take on bell hooks. It's a long fight, and the crowd applaud encouragingly. Germaine wins to the soundtrack of Destiny's Child's "Survivor". S.C.U.M. Manifesto writer Valerie Solanas then goes up against the almighty Greer. "Go on, Valerie!" someone bellows at the back. Valerie is serious; her stance is a strong and deadly squat. With legs planted firmly a shoulder's width apart on the mat, she cunningly bends her knees to give her leverage for the final push. She wins, the crowd goes wild. Valerie's a hit.

Next, heavyweight Gloria Steinem enters to see if she can win against vicious Valerie—she can't. So the final fight of the second round is Valerie Solanas versus Betty Friedan, Katy Perry blasting on the speakers, "Because I am a fighter… You're gonna hear me roar." It looks like a shoo-in. Betty's arm shudders like a car struggling up a steep hill, but she holds firm. She grits her teeth, grunts and pushes back. The almighty Valerie folds, hangs her head, and slams her fist on the table. Betty Friedan takes the much lauded title of best "historically rel second wave fem."

The crowd gathers around the ring for the final. Betty takes a short break to regain her strength. You could cut the tension with a knife. I start speaking to two women in their 50s, who have come dressed as Betty Friedan and Anais Nin (complete with a birdcage on her head), but insist they won't be taking part. They're purely here as spectators.

"It's a great idea," Anais Nin tells me. "I've loved it but I must say I prefer the 'old' feminists. I'm not into Kim Karshaaadian [sic] or whoever she is, and all that shit."

"Tonight is fun, but I just think there isn't enough dialogue generally, there isn't enough going on that is intergenerational," she adds. "So it's great to have something that is, somewhere where we can all mix together. The younger lot like you, and us…I guess we're old."

It's time for the final. "Representing contemporary fems, we have Janelle Monae," Megastar shouts. "Representing the historically rel second wave fems we have Betty Friedan." Christina Aguilera's "Dirrrty" blasts through the room as screams erupt from the audience.Germaine Greer takes on a newcomer.

Janelle looks serious, standing firm at the table her arm locked at a right angle. Betty pumps her elbow, fighting with all her might. Janelle begins to wane, her knuckles turn bright white from her vice-like grip. A smile breaks out across her face; it's the conceding smile of a loser. Janelle gives way to Betty, who wins the title of 'Best Feminist' and dons a wrestling belt made of Barbies as her prize.

Megastar and Mapes invite me to take part in a freestyle wrestle with them. By now I've had enough to drink to give it a go. I win quickly against Mapes, using all my might to crush her. But Megastar is just too strong and I crumble under the pressure in seconds. I get distracted by her bulging tricep while she bats her long, false eyelashes at me calmly, barely breaking a bead of sweat. Beyonce blares from the soundsystem: "Who run the world? Girls! Who run the world? Girls!" I lose.

"We were a bit anxious about doing this because obviously we haven't done a feminist intergenerational arm wrestle before," Mapes says after our wrestle.

"This night has come from our residency here," Megastar adds. "What was nice about it is that we are just being ourselves… Being empowered, being a nuisance, and being fun. We need more stuff like this, we need more conversations like this to allow women to be a bit more relaxed about being a nuisance and having fun."

"That was the most fun thing I've photographed," my photographer tells me.

As the Sisters wrap up their night, I head back to east London and meet up with my friends at a Drake night (that's a club night where they only play Drake songs, in case the name didn't give it away). I'm buzzing, still high on sisterhood and violent arm-wrestling. But as I look around the club, all I see are young City boy types in crisp shirts are swaying on stage and doing gun fingers. My heart sinks; I want to go back to Bermondsey. Say feminists can't throw a party? I laughed and smiled so much with the Sisters that my face still hurts.