She came from Coventry with a snarl in her voice and steel in her spine. Victoria Owen, but everyone knew her as Jetta, the sharp-tongued hellraiser in a sport that often prefers its women grinning or glittered. She wasn’t here to smile. She was here to wreck—egos, illusions, and if needed, bones.
Billed as “Coventry’s Loudest,” Jetta was never content to let her fists do all the talking. She cut promos like bar fights, all elbows and venom, the type of woman who made you flinch just by raising a mic. She didn’t seduce the crowd—she heckled them into obedience.
Her career didn’t sparkle. It smoldered.
She didn’t come out of some WWE factory line or Tokyo dojo. No, she clawed her way through the mud and grit of Britain’s indie scene, turning dingy gymnasiums into warzones. While others chased fame, Jetta chased blood feuds, and often found them.
RISE FROM THE GRIT
She wasn’t bred for the ring. She wasn’t the daughter of a legend or the golden child of some famous school. She found wrestling the same way Bukowski found poetry—late, angry, and by accident. A child of the late-’90s wrestling boom, she began training in 2002 with Midlands Professional Wrestling, mentored by NWA UK veterans like Psycho Steve and Majik. If that sounds like a cast of comic-book villains, that’s because it kind of was.
And they forged her into something more than just another pretty face throwing weak forearms. She could hang with men, outwork women, and outtalk damn near everyone.
She broke both her forearms in 2005. Both. Most people would quit. Jetta came back louder.
THE JEZEBEL AND THE HOMEWRECKER
Some rivalries define careers. For Jetta, that came in the form of Eden Black, the “Jezebel” from Romford, a technical wizard in eyeliner. They didn’t just wrestle—they fought like ex-lovers. Their matches were emotional wreckage wrapped in wristlocks, the kind of feud that felt more personal than scripted.
They tore through LDN Wrestling like twin hurricanes. Jetta, ever the villain, loved drawing heat. Booed in Romford, booed in London, booed wherever Eden Black was loved. And she wouldn’t have had it any other way. A heel in the purest sense—one who could make the crowd froth with rage and still make you laugh in the same breath.
It wasn’t just a storyline. It was a civil war in fishnets.
From grudge matches to tag-team chaos, Jetta made every feud with Black feel like a season of Killing Eve. Only sweatier. Only realer.
RQW, WAWW, AND THE BRITISH TITLES THAT MEANT SOMETHING
She made her mark in Real Quality Wrestling and World Association of Women’s Wrestling—not household names, sure, but to those in the know, those promotions were battlegrounds. She tangled with Sweet Saraya (yes, that Saraya), Cheerleader Melissa, MsChif, Wesna—wrestlers who didn’t throw punches as much as launch grenades with wrist tape.
She beat Saraya. Twice. Stole titles. Caused riots. Made enemies. She even dropped Saraya out of action for six months, though the real reason was an injury elsewhere. But Jetta, ever the opportunist, owned the myth.
That’s who she was—part performer, part street brawler, part illusionist.
CHICKFIGHT: SCREAMS, SCHEMES, AND SHOULDER SUBMISSIONS
In ChickFight, she became something closer to a stage villain—taunting, cheating, breaking rules and then breaking them again. She tapped into the art of manipulation. Berated crowds. Screwed opponents. Turned ring psychology into theater noir.
She cost Cheerleader Melissa a job, interrupted retirement announcements, and demanded credit for injuries she didn’t cause. ChickFight was her playground, and she lit it on fire every time she stepped in.
In her magnum opus against Eden Black—one final match, Black’s shoulder wrapped like a Christmas ham—Jetta tapped out to the Garden of Eden after twenty minutes of malicious artistry. And even in defeat, she made damn sure you remembered her name.
SHIMMER AND THE INTERNATIONAL HOME WRECKING CREW
America called, and Jetta answered like a woman who already knew she belonged. In SHIMMER, she debuted on a stacked card alongside Eden Black against Sara Del Rey and Allison Danger. They lost. But Jetta didn’t fly across an ocean to be liked.
She returned again and again, entering battle royals, stealing spotlight, and eventually joining Rain and Lacey to form The International Home Wrecking Crew—a name so loaded it could only belong to villains.
The Crew became a chaos trio, and when Lacey left, Jetta and Rain kept the home-wrecking spirit alive. They tangled with Ashley Lane and Nevaeh in tag classics, cheating like professionals and losing like legends.
When she lost, it wasn’t clean. When she won, it wasn’t fair. That’s how you build a reputation.
That’s how you get remembered.
RETIREMENT, RESPECT, AND REBELLION
In 2010, Jetta walked into her hometown and told the crowd she was done. That she would retire in June. No blaze of glory. No confetti parade. Just the quiet resignation of a woman who had said what she needed to say in the ring—and left bruises behind.
She didn’t become a WWE Hall of Famer. She never went to WrestleMania. But she changed what it meant to be a woman in British wrestling. She made it nasty. She made it loud. She made it matter.
Fighting Spirit Magazine called her a revolutionary alongside Eden Black. They were right. Before the glammed-up TV divisions. Before the Evolution pay-per-view. There was Jetta. Tearing the walls down, one middle finger at a time.
AFTER THE BELL
In 2020, she got engaged to fellow wrestler Charlie Morgan. In 2023, they got married. A punk rock fairy tale with less glass slippers and more steel chairs. She’s still out there—doing seminars, making guest appearances, proving once again that a loudmouth from Coventry could change the shape of a sport.
Not bad for someone who once won matches with hair-pulling and heel stomps.
EPILOGUE: THE CANDLE BURNS BRIGHTEST
Wrestling didn’t make Jetta sweet. It made her legendary.
She didn’t need pyro. Didn’t need a titantron. Just a mic, a match, and a reason to fight.
And in the end, she gave every woman who stepped in the ring after her a reason to believe that being loud, being hated, being herself—could be the most powerful thing of all.
Jetta wasn’t just a wrestler.
She was a rebellion in kneepads.