She wasn’t built for bikinis or battle royals. She didn’t come into the business with cheerleader looks or a dropkick like poetry. She came in fists first and asked questions later. In an era when women in wrestling were either valets, sideshow attractions, or told to sit down and smile, Klondyke Kate broke through the ropes like a woman on fire—and she never cooled off.
Jayne Porter, born May 10, 1962, in England, didn’t wait for wrestling to come knocking. She kicked the damn door off its hinges at 14 years old. That’s not a typo. Fourteen. While most girls were picking out prom dresses, Jayne was in Blackpool answering crowd challenges and suplexing her way into history.
And she did it under the name Klondyke Kate, which sounded less like a wrestler and more like the last outlaw in a pulp western. And truth be told, that’s exactly what she was.
Steel Boots, Stiff Shots, and Blackpool Beginnings
Klondyke Kate didn’t ease into the business. She dove in—headfirst and unafraid. She trained in the same Blackpool gym as William Regal, a place where toughness wasn’t a gimmick, it was a requirement. There were no mirrors in that gym, only broken ropes and expectations.
Her first match? In a bar. Against The Cherokee Princess and Rusty Blair. It was sticky floors, cigarette smoke, and working-class roars. That kind of debut either breaks you or builds you. Kate wasn’t just built. She was carved.
From there, she began wrestling both men and women across Britain. Not because she wanted to make a point. But because she had no choice. There weren’t many women in the game. And fewer still who wanted to get in the ring with someone like her—a brawler in sequins, with thighs like tree trunks and a stare that could unhinge your courage.
In 1982, she took her boots to Japan—a brutal, technical proving ground that chewed up foreigners and spat them out. But Kate lasted. Of course she did. She didn’t do pretty wrestling. She did necessary wrestling.
Raging Belles and Real Pain
By 1987, she had made history as part of the first legal women’s match in London at the Royal Albert Hall. This wasn’t just a match. It was a war declaration against tradition.
Then came 1989, and with it, Raging Belles, a BBC2 documentary that aired her match against Nicky Monroe for the British Women’s Championship. She won. But the real story wasn’t the belt. It was the woman wearing it—a bruiser with working-class scars and a belly full of grief and resilience.
She wasn’t marketable by 1980s standards. Too loud. Too big. Too real. But she kept wrestling because she couldn’t stop. Wrestling didn’t just pay the bills. It was the only place that made sense.
In October 1990, she managed male heels against Big Daddy on Scottish ITV shows. After both tag teams lost, Kate herself got into it with Big Daddy in a post-match scuffle. Imagine that—one of the biggest draws in British wrestling history being swarmed by a pissed-off woman in face paint and fury.
She made appearances on the Welsh-language Reslo, where Orig Williams booked her against men like it was no big deal. Because for Kate, it never was.
The Woman Behind the Monster
But behind the thunderclap entrances and the clubbing forearms was a woman falling apart quietly.
She had six miscarriages. Let that sit for a minute. Six. Each one its own heartbreak. Each one suffered in silence between matches and hotel rooms. She once discovered she was over eight months pregnant after a particularly hard bump in the ring. Her son, Adam, survived. His father was fellow wrestler Ian Dean. But that kind of story doesn’t get turned into a WWE documentary. It gets tucked into hospital corridors and whispered about.
Her daughter Connor, later known as Connie Steele, followed her into the ring. Their final match together in 2011 was both a passing of the torch and a full-circle moment soaked in love, pain, and legacy.
She battled anxiety, depression, and the kind of self-image demons that grow teeth in a business obsessed with looks. At one point, her weight ballooned to 28 stone (roughly 392 pounds). She had gastric bypass surgery, dropped 14 stone, and kept fighting.
Not just in the ring, but outside it too. As a foster parent. As a mentor. As a voice for disadvantaged youth who’d never seen someone like her—a survivor in sequins, a woman who wore her scars with pride.
The Hall of Fame, The Spotlight, and the Goodbye
In 2018, she became the first inductee into the Pro-Wrestling: EVE Hall of Fame. And rightfully so. You don’t talk about women’s wrestling in Britain without mentioning Klondyke Kate. You don’t talk about legitimacy, toughness, and passion without saying her name in the same breath as Dynamite Kid or Rollerball Rocco.
In 2019, she was featured on BBC One’s The One Show, a moment of mainstream acknowledgment that felt decades overdue. She stood tall. Not as a novelty act. But as a pioneer.
She wasn’t the woman you booked to sell calendars. She was the woman you booked when you wanted blood on the canvas and truth in the ring.
The Lasting Bruise
Klondyke Kate wasn’t perfect. Her story is jagged, messy, and sometimes hard to tell. But that’s the point. Wrestling is a crooked business full of broken promises and ego trips. And she lived through it all.
She didn’t fit in. So she forced her way through.
She wasn’t designed to be a hero. So she became a legend instead.
She wrestled in bars, on TV, in Japan, on documentaries, against men, alongside her daughter, and in the final act, against her own body.
And she never asked for your pity.
Just your respect.
She earned it the hard way.
