Lee Gale

Hmm… the sore left knee is rapidly drifting into disaster territory. I knew there were problems when, last weekend, I had to walk around Central London for a few hours and felt frequent sharp pain – to the extent that we had to stop off at a pub at Turnpike Lane on the way home and have a few daytime pints (The Westbury – an oasis!).

Upon hearing “Yoi!” and then shouting out the kata you’re intending to showboat, (“HEIAN NIDAN!”) you make a PG Tips cup and saucer with your hands at waist height (left off this diagram!), look to the left and thrust to the “television position”. I’m on BBC2, obviously.

The YouTube idea quickly gained traction to the point where Mrs Gale, a trained artist and designer, had suggested an opening sequence including a cartoonised version of yours truly in karate gi. Then, with 7.9 million viewers, all eager to hear the hilarious exploits of an ageing karate red belt, the cash would roll in and before I knew it, I’d be driving a Lamborghini Diablo while wearing a cap turned sideways.

It was a karate twice-weeker and the Middlesex Shotokan core squeezed into the senseis’ home gym for our now regular extra training session. The walk there was in brilliant glowing sunset, but there was no sign of the now famous Winchmore Hill owl and thankfully no “Hum”.

Throughout our earlier-in-the-week karate session at the backyard gym, Winchmore Hill Owl could clearly be heard, its haunted hooting a soundtrack as we punched, kicked and attempted our best Spider-Man press-ups.

I’ve become a very tough critic of myself in karate – there’s a sort of martial arts Brian Clough manager in my head and in this week’s session I was, “Rubbish! Bloody rubbish!”

I’d just been able to walk upright without discomfort following the previous week’s exertions when a text dinged to my new iPhone – my first ever Apple travel blower by the way and I’m struggling with it – on Monday saying: “Come round to the gym tonight!” This was it: we were biweekly!

There was to be a funeral at the church on Green Lanes. Someone had died and the back room – aka the dojo – was required by grieving persons. I sent an email reply to the sensei stating that if we promised we’d be quiet and not shout kiai!, then maybe an agreement could be reached with the friends of the deceased.

Kicking a pad is a rollicking way to break a sweat and my football past means that anything to do with booting gets the thumbs up (or should that be big toes up?) from me. I can get some real power into a foot swing – but hitting head-level high? Oof! Apparently striking a noggin with a foot is three points in competition. Maybe remove a point for the ensuing hernia.

It was back to the familiar surroundings of the church’s back room and a sea (well, more a tarn, really) of schoolkid faces. “You all look very colourful with your red belts,” Sensei Amrit remarked. My face was probably the same colour because I’d only just made it to the dojo in time.