So, I decided to tackle my crippling lack of confidence by taking up the martial arts. "Scary-san", said my Kung Fu Master at the end of my first lesson, "I have a special task for you. I command you - as your sensei - to come to my house this weekend and paint the fence in my back garden."
"I am honoured," I said, cowering before the man-mountain who was to become my guide in the Way of the Exploding Fist, "Is this so I might attain some sort of zen-like enlightenment of these ancient arts of self defence through the discipline and drudgery of hard manual labour?"
"No," he replied, "I'll break your legs if you don't."
Not having a proper uniform, he also made me wear stuff out of the lost property box. It was either that or grapple with the lightly-oiled brute in my vest and pants. Or "Greek-style", as he put it, the panic rising up inside me like a day-old doner kebab.
"Rule eight of Kung Fu Club", he said, an evil glint in his eye: "If it's your first night at
It's OK. I can walk now. Who knew The Way of the Wedgie was a legitimate move?
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