Man behaving badly
Jeremy Clarke
It's good to be back at karate training again. In the six months since I've been away, we've got a new karate sensei (teacher). He's a sixth Dan. He came down from karate HQ in Liverpool to conduct a grading session, fell in love with a brown belt, and stayed. The brown belt is now a black belt.
Because we now have such a high-ranking sensei, the club has expanded, and we have separate training sessions for juniors and seniors. I'm in the seniors. Apart from me and my purple belt, the seniors are all black belts, so I'm always pushed to the limit of my stamina and ability. During the kwnite (fighting) part of the class I go almost insane with excitement and I steam into my blackbelt opponents without bothering about either defence or technique. Which was why I was limping all over Christmas.
You don't really know anyone properly until you've sung with them or fought with them. Consequently we know one another, in my opinion, with a deeper knowledge than we ever would by simply exchanging selected information about ourselves. My feelings for the other members of our club borders on love, in spite of knowing little or nothing about their private lives.
There's Mick, a third Dan. Fifteen years on the doors. The complete gentleman. Looks like a pikey. Mick always emphasises the importance of an element of surprise when whacking someone. The only thing I know about Mick's home life is that after his alsation died he skinned it and made it into a hearth rug.
Then there's Ron, also third Dan. Little bloke. Perm. Strong as a goat. Mends washing-machines. Touchy about his hair. Before this new chap took over, Ron was our sensei. He still is, really, for most of us, especially in the pastoral sense of the word. He cares. If! miss more than two training sessions, he rings me up and says, 'Where the hell are you?' Which is nice.
And there's Neil. Skinhead. Learning difficulties. Facial tic. Hopelessly unco-ordinated. Shakes boxes of mushrooms for a living. Signals from Neil's brain normally take around three seconds to reach what is usually the wrong part of his body. This makes him a dangerous opponent during kurnite. Punches himself accidentally sometimes. Never misses a training session.
There's also Tina, mum of two, whose tranquillisers make her permanently libidinous and you only have to ask. And Bob, a computer programmer, who in training looks like he'd rip your head off and spit in the hole. And not forgetting Paddy, an antiquarian bookseller specialising in old medical textbooks, who strongly believes in the perfectability of mankind. In kumite Paddy favours a straight right to the throat.
I'd been back training for a fortnight when we had our Christmas dinner and karaoke. This was followed by a two-week break from training. I behaved badly. Limping, and very drunk, I somehow got it into my head that they were all frauds and cowards. That, if it really came down to it, in spite of training twice a week, 50 weeks of the year, none of them would be any good in a real fight. What brought it on, I think, was a description I'd heard recently of a fight outside a night club between a karate kid and a farm labourer. Apparently the karate kid went down into his fighting stance and did all these elaborate flowing moves with his arms, and the farm boy simply walked over and twatted him in the face with his forehead. Game over. Five years training down the drain.
'Oh, you think you're dead hard in the dojo,' I said to Bob. 'Just because you're in your pyjamas and nicely warmed up. But when was the last time you actually used any of these ridiculous techniques?' I went round, all belligerent-like and questioned everyone except Mick (in Mick's case you can take it as read) about whether they would smack anyone outside the dojo, or had recently done so. The new sensei told me, calmly, that the last time he'd used karate outside the dojo was years ago, in a bar in Cyprus. A local man had fondled his private parts, twice, uninvited. The second time after a warning. Sensei had kicked him.
Ron said he'd hit someone only the day before yesterday actually, at the traffic lights. He'd got out of the car and tried to punch this bloke through the window, but he'd managed to wind up his window just in time. 'Fortunately,' said Ron, 'his sunroof was open so I whacked him through that instead. You should have seen the look on his face,' But in my drunken psychosis they had been weighed in the balance and found wanting. 'You're all just a bunch of wankers,' I said, grabbing the microphone during the karaoke.
I'm expecting another battering tonight, when we resume training for 2002, delivered with love and precision. If I haven't said it yet, Happy New Year!!
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