The Karate Kid

I recently had cause to visit a former work colleague with whom I had numerous, unresolved differences. It was not long before I was introduced to the fruit of his loins, a hyperactive young lad of about 8, who bounced into the lounge resplendent in what I imagined to be his karate kit. We were introduced and I was informed that the child had just returned from this evening’s class at the local sports centre. Encouraged by his proud father he was requested to demonstrate some of the techniques he had learned, at which point he started to throw 'haymakers' in the direction of the aforementioned loins. His mother kindly corrected him, suggesting that he should in fact be aiming rapier-like thrusts at his intended target. With the obedience becoming a drill sargeant he continued to pummel his father's nether region accompanied by the obligatory high pitched squawks (or was that coming from his father). Not being a particularly child-friendly person I have to admit that I was quickly warming to this child’s charms, smiling enthusiastically as each punch landed. It was a most impressive display that I insisted he repeat several times, so that I might gain greater insight into the demands of the sport. Not wishing to displease his son dad was forced to stand his ground wincing through gritted teeth.

My colleague and I did not resolve our differences though I did come away that evening having learned 3 valuable lessons: - one – Pride comes before a fall, two - there is a God and three – never let your child take karate lessons until they are at least 4 foot tall.

Trailer troubles

Spring may be just around the corner (for those with a more positive disposition) which unfortunately signals the return of the universally unwelcome breed of numpkin to the British countryside. I refer to that peculiar section of society that chooses to travel the length and breadth of this Fair Isle with an oversized sardine tin attached to the rear of their family saloon. You may have noticed that the extreme practitioners of this sect view clogging up our arteries as an all-year-round pastime.

Are their lives so vacuous that they feel the need to jump into the car and drive to some far flung location at every available opportunity? What do they do when they get to their destination and how long do they stay there?

The cost of these things would suggest they need to work around the clock to pay for them, so I am guessing that no sooner have they reached their destination and settled in than it is time to decamp and begin the homeward journey.

I once watched a TV interview where a member of this sect enthused about the joys of sitting around all day drinking tea and using a chemical toilet. Surely both these questionable benefits could be achieved at a fraction of the cost within the comfort of one's own home. You can’t tell me the experience of using a chemical toilet is any different in Doncaster from Dorset or Dundalk.

For those who argue that they are escaping the rat race I would suggest that they are simply replacing one form of rat race with another. They are escaping nothing, not even the household chores, the gardening, the DIY and car-washing that the majority of the population are forced to do at weekends. These people are not nomads, gypsies or road warriors, they simply enjoy sitting in soggy fields, exchanging stories of fuel costs, journey times and one-upmanship with groups of similar minded tea loving chemical toilet aficionados.

Weighted down with the fridge, the kitchen sink, the barbecue, the satellite TV, the dog and the family bikes these leviathans of the road trundle up and down the motorways bringing misery to millions of other road users whose simple purpose in life is to get from point A to point B in reasonable time, and with the minimum of inconvenience.

Stuck in traffic, surrounded by hundreds of these tin monstrosities one realises that they all have names such as ‘Rapide’ or ‘Vitesse’, ‘Sprint’, ‘Galaxy’, ‘Swift’, ‘Velos', 'Mistral', ’Cougar'. Even the manufacturers are taking the proverbial – these vehicles, whether they be caravan or camper van, were never built for speed. A sports car or racing bike you could understand. Why aren’t these people up in court under the Trade Description Act? Surely a more representative naming convention would still allow brand names to trip off the tongue effortlessly – how about the ‘Slo-go’ or ‘Dumpster', ‘Compact’, ‘Fridge’, ‘Snail’ or ‘Bollard’. The only downside to this idea, as I see it, would be the thought of being overtaken by a ‘Suzuki Snail’ bombing down the fast lane of the motorway with its 60 mph max sticker flapping in its wake.

Thankfully my disposition tends towards the bleak so I can look forward to another couple of months ensconced beneath my duvet. Wake me up when Summer is here.