LITMIR.BIZ

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fight a young but highly motivated Japanese student nick-named Kamikaze. His name became one of my recurring bedtime issues. I couldn’t help but feel I would be visited by a brigade of officials in full uniform. They would inform me of my immediate win by default, as the ballot had been rigged. Yes, rigged! Kamikaze was considerably larger, broader, meaner, and with longer reach than enjoyed by most of his fellow compatriots. He also repeated unpleasant things to me. ‘When I get you in that ring, English, I’m going to smash your face into pieces like only a Samurai warrior can.’

      ‘Right! Great!’ I’m sure my voice sounded sharper than intended.

      I was more than a little bit frightened of him and my stomach performed back-flips. Never would I be more relieved than to hear the sweetest sound of all. That bloody end gong!

      The night before the big event at some stage I fell into a light sleep. Dreams became nightmares as Kamikaze beat me to within an inch of my life. Rivers of blood ran through the house like giant waterfalls.

      Next morning came the big day. Dad was so proud I’d completed the term he decided to come and watch. ‘You can only either win or lose. Trivialities won’t count for much. It’s either one way or the other.’

      I suspected in reality he was there to stop the fight with supportive words like, ‘ No! Stop the fight! You’re killing my son!’

      An entire entourage of Japanese folk sat in the front row. My support team was definitely in the development stage. I was in trouble. I felt like a lamb to the slaughter.

      My veins iced up. I knew my nose couldn’t withstand more than one unlucky blow. When the first round commenced, I charged out of my corner.

      The smile stayed on coach’s face at first but visibly lost its grip at the edges as our bout continued. My arms fired faster than a speeding bullet. They were like pistons mostly in a forward direction but with no regard for neat footwork, and without etiquette or any of the finer arts coach had tried to teach me.

      My opponent tried to cover, then he tried to duck, but his reflexes were too slow. My gloves landed with repeated thuds against his face. Kamikaze stumbled backwards. The crowd erupted like Vesuvius in its last days.

      My opponent reached for his nose, and then coach made us wait.

      When we resumed I turned back into my foe. Then I spun around with enough speed to start up a wind tunnel. Kamikaze’s face twitched, hardly a smile, more a grimace. I didn’t move with grace but I was as fast as lunacy. Kamikaze collapsed to the floor like a leaking balloon. My head swam with relief. He was down!

      The next few minutes of my tender years can be retold only by on-lookers, as my brain would block out the harsh reality for my own benefit. But Kamikaze the Samurai warrior went down again after the count.

      If I could have I’d have held him down there with my foot on his throat.

      Each time he got up, not long after the gong sounded, I delivered a range of big ugly punches and put him straight down again. I was demonic.

      My performance wasn’t pretty. No style. No finesse. But I was so bloody terrified of Kamikaze hurting me I never gave him the opportunity to get in a single punch.

      Coach stopped the fight after the next count. I had beaten him without receiving a single blow to my nose.

      All the Japanese entourage stood up en-masse and walked out in total disgust.

      Coach was furious with me over my unpolished performance.

      Without being allowed to take a break or even catch my breath, I had to box the next in line. My best friend David was shorter than me with less reach, but a fine boxer.

      He beat me, easily.

      They stopped the fight when my nose bled. But I didn’t care. I had survived against the fearful one and that had been my dread. Getting a bloody nose from my best friend didn’t have the same fear factor for me.

      I was awarded a runner up medal.

      Coach had a voice like steel wool being dragged over corrugated iron. He leaked his hostility through pursed lips. ‘You don’t deserve it and I’ll be telling your father you’re no longer permitted to box in this school.’

      He didn’t have to go far because Dad was standing behind him puffing on his pipe.

      ‘Okay, sir,’ I said, drawing out the words.

      I looked at Dad. His face as expressionless as the Sphinx he shrugged back at me. ‘At least you can leave with dignity.’

      I moved on to sports but began to think ball control meant the state of my underpants. It was a bonding moment for me when Dad said, ‘The only balls you might ever play with successfully will probably be your own. Whenever you run or jump, you have two left feet.’

      Any appeal of sport was lost to me at an early age. I was really, really bad at sports and everybody else knew how atrocious I was. Those in charge of selection didn’t so much avoid choosing me, as hope if they ignored me completely, I might disappear.

      

      Dad’s business had done so well his premises in Portobello Road became too small.

      He secured a lease on larger workshops in Hatton Garden with further room for expansion. Mum preached caution. ‘We must not waste money, Bill.’

      Being splashed with good old-fashioned common sense, they decided to go to the Annual Motor Show held at Earls Court. There they could compare prices and strategise as to which type of car would best suit their needs.

      Dad made a face. ‘I know. It’s too hard to make it. I’m not daft. We’ll be careful, but we should buy a new car.’

      Mum smiled at me. ‘Your dad’s right. Our old Talbot has evolved into dinosaur status.’

      ‘It’s certainly in need of an upgrade.’ Dad puffed on his pipe with excitement.

      Objectives were clearly in mind. Dad was intent on the latest in engines while Mum fixated on comfort and colour. ‘Anything but black, Bill,’ Mum reminded him.

      Their parameters were agreed before they set off on their outing.

      Hours dragged by with me stuck at home even after I’d exhausted all options for mischief. My anticipation of the events unfolding at the annual show, to which I had been excluded, was absolute torment.

      I could hardly contain myself when they returned. I burst out to greet them and my soon to be inheritance, as only a loving son should do. To be stopped harshly in mid air-born strides. What presented was far from the latest in white with crimson red upholstery as I had imagined. Instead they were both getting out of their old black Talbot.

      I oozed with sincerity when I said, ‘Well, Dad, where is it? Where’s our new car and what did we get?’

      Dad’s face was flushed with alcohol. His expression displayed the distinct pride only new ownership can bring. They could hardly contain their excitement as they hurried inside to show me glossy pictures from every angle of their latest acquisition.

      A new boat!

      Next day, Gramps shook his head but winked at me. ‘Your dad must have suffered a chardonnay overdose at the show.’ I tried to wink back and nearly got it right.

      Gran was amazed about the boat. ‘They’re not exactly spontaneous people, are they? Why would they do that?’

      ‘Their idea of spur of the moment is to plan a break twelve months ahead, Girl.

      But the salesman must have been terrific,’ Gramps added, ‘because Bill’s uninformed about all things nautical.’

      ‘He’s never liked boats and is terrified of water in any more than bath tub proportions,’ Gran reminded

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