Danny's Shinjido Blog

Working in our shops could be boring and required some light relief to get through the Summer Season. I got into the habit of playing practical jokes on strangers simply for my own amusement. The following just like Jack Bower occurred in 24 hours.

Wednesday morning I come out of our Torquay Rock shop (Ye Olde Fashioned Humbugge Shop) and parked by Addison’s bakery was a bubble car resplendent with Peter Stuyvesant logos. It was a promotion for the cigarette company and two glamorous young ladies attired with sashes had left it to buy some buns. It was irresistible.

As an elderly lady passed by, I asked if she would like to take part in our promotion. “What do I have to do dear?” she asked. I told her to get in the driving seat and we would push her around the harbour. All she had to do was steer. Some young men were close by. “Would you mind helping us with the promotion?” I called out and explained we needed them to push the bubble car around the harbour. Willing lads, they were off and so was I as the Stuyvesant girls came out of the bakery to find their vehicle had gone. They did not look so glamorous chasing after the bubble car in their miniskirts and high heels.

After a few hours I decided to spend some time in our ice cream parlour on the Brixham Quay. Apart from the sit down trade we needed to sell cornets to passersby. There was a fair amount of competition so it was vital that a member of staff was permanently by the soft ice machine in our entrance. I lead by example so I donned an apron and started to drum up some trade. Selling ice cream is a bit like selling candy floss. When you see someone buying an ice cream you realise that you fancy one yourself.

We had a sign showing the price with or without a Cadburys chocolate flake. After a while I got bored with pointing at the sign and asking “with or without?” A young couple approached for their ice cream “With or without?” The reply was “Without” so I took his hand placed it under the nozzle and gave him a squirt of ice cream in his palm. I followed the same procedure with the young lady. It was with some difficulty that he took his change and they looked somewhat perplexed as they walked off licking their palms.

Sanity returned but only momentary. A big flash American Open top car parked outside the shop. The family disembarked to go walk about. The unusual vehicle started to attract attention. Once again this was irresistible. I took off my apron and put a member of staff on the machine. it was only a few minutes before another young couple were admiring the car.

Without them realising that I had come from our shop, I approached and asked in my best American accent “Hey buddy. How do you like my car?” “It’s gorgeous.” was the reply. To which I enquired “How would you like to take it around the block?” “I couldn’t do that could I?” asked the young man. “Sure you can. You’ve got a licence haven’t you?” In a trice I had them both in the car, familiarising themselves with the controls while I went to get the key. I saw them adjusting seats, mirrors and the rake of the steering wheel. I also saw the owners family returning as I made a quick departure. It made me chuckle. The thought that they might be Americans and how they could relate back home, that people may think of the Brits as having a stiff upper lip but they knew better.

Odd things can happen to you when selling soft ice cream. On one occasion I had my back to the street, when I felt a powerful arm around my neck. For a moment I thought one of my jokes may have misfired on me. I took off some of the pressure and turned to find it was Ray Ross; our British Team Captain.

My road rage instruction came long before I was old enough to drive. My father took it very personally if he was cut up by traffic and would sometimes pursue the culprit. He also felt obliged to give driving lessons to oncoming drivers that failed to dip their headlights. His lessons were short and to the point. He carried a bag of pebbles and would chuck a handful out of the window to hit the offenders window screen. On reflection his behaviour was hardly normal. In later life it was discovered that he was manic depressive and tragically in 1973 he ended his life in a Brixham car park with a bottle of whisky and a handful of sleeping pills. It was a great shock and my grief lasted many years. He was only 58 years old. It was a long time before I could tell people not to upset me as suicide ran in our family. My mother died at 93 so I am officially an orphan.

I never witnessed any of the fights the old man got into through his unique sense of justice but on one occasion he came home laughing. Apparently he chased after a driver and got him to pull over. When the man got out, father realised he was a giant. His seat had to be repositioned so that he could drive. The old man was barely 5ft 3inches and never weighed more than 130lb but he was a fearless scrapper and very strong. He shaped up to the giant but the guy had such a long reach that he could not get in close. He soon realised that his opponent did not really want to hit him. They both saw the humour in the situation and parted having shaken hands.

When I turned seventeen, father decided that I should be taught to drive. His lessons were irregular but without incident. I applied for my driving test in Eastbourne but he had a change of heart; deciding that he did not want his eldest son put at risk on the road. The lessons ceased. On the day of the test he relented and I was given a quick lesson on the three point turn. This is not meant to finish up on the pavement, so needless to say, I failed the test.

We moved to Exmouth and I passed my driving test. Father had managed to acquire a block of property that was formally Burton the Tailors. He split it into a cafeteria and the first cut price grocers in Devon. The cafeteria/ coffee bar became very popular with the locals and the marines stationed at Topsham. Trouble was not infrequent. So we employed an old friend as washer up and trouble shooter.

Ben Valentine had a colourful career. A Fijian middle weight boxer, he was heavyweight champion of the islands. He went to America fighting Light Heavyweight and attempted to get a match with Gus Lesnevich the world champion. He was also one of Mae West’s body guards for a while and claimed to have know her in the biblical way. Coming to Britain, he eventually got a match with Freddie Mills who had taken the title from Lesnavich. My father and uncle saw the fight. In the second round, Ben waded in and virtually had Mills out when the bell sounded. However he did sustain a cut eye. The referee, who was well known to the family, disliked Ben and the fight was stopped. In Freddie Mills book, he refers to fighting one Ben Valentine,” who had a reputation as a terrific hitter and I stopped him in the second round.” History is written by the victor but it is not always accurate. When Ben stayed with us he was about 5ft 6inch and weighed 240lb. He was almost as broad as he was long and had massive arms.

As I enjoyed driving, I undertook the van deliveries that we made for customers. One day Ben accompanied me so that we could get back early for a game of snooker. He took offence at an overtaking driver and insisted I gave chase. He even pressed my foot on the accelerator. luckily ours was not a racing van.

We sold the Exmouth business so that was the last I saw of Ben Valentine, my sparring partner and snooker coach. However my father’s tendency towards road rage had not diminished. I was driving him one day when he felt that we had been cut up. He demanded that I gave chase and we ended up in the multi-storey car park. We got out to confront the three offenders but before we could get within range, they produced their badges and warrants. They were off duty policemen. Happily besides having a deep respect for the law, the officers handled the situation with humour and diplomacy.

This would have been a salutary lesson for a normal person but it did not cure my father. He was cut up at the traffic lights by a bus. He followed in his Jaguar to the next stop; leapt out of his car and attempted to drag the driver out from behind with a neck lock. I cannot recall whether this resulted in a court appearance but it would have been well deserved.

With such an appalling role model it is surprising that I have always shown great tolerance on the road. I realise that some drivers feel that they are in an impregnable tank when they shout obscenities or make crude gestures. It is only when you get two alpha males that confrontations become physical. However I must admit that I have not always been perfect but I put this down to my fine sense of justice. I used to take stock from our Torquay store to our shop in Brixham. Parking was always a nightmare in the Summer Season and my van window was often adorned by 17 unpaid parking tickets. Shelves needed to be stocked up and time was money. There was a short cut that avoided traffic lights. It was a narrow road and fronted a pub that became the haunt of Hells Angels on their weeks annual holiday. No one dared drive down the road during that week. This was unjust. So I took my regular route, driving quite slowly. This attracted much fist banging on both sides of the van. I had the sense not to get out but I could not depart without some token retaliation. Pausing at the end of the road, I reversed back at full speed and scattered them. Their reaction was to pick up rocks that decorated the road edge but I made my get away.

The only time I have been outraged at the wheel of a car occurred in the New Forest. At the time I had a Crayford converted Ford Cortina. They took off the roof making it a rag top and dropped in a 3 litre engine. For its time it was considered a fast vehicle. In fact Colin McIver (British International and current Technical Director)nearly killed me in it. We had been instructing and training with the marines Judo squad and I invited him to drive. Perhaps the roads in Scotland were different for he started to overtake close to an oncoming vehicle. We made it by the skin of our teeth.

I digress. on was on my way to Eastbourne with Cynthia and our three young daughters. The road was clear to overtake but the other driver accelerated for all he was worth, staring ahead as if wearing blinkers. I pulled back for safety and allowed the car behind to overtake me as I followed the offender. He arrived at some traffic lights that had turned red, giving me my opportunity. He did not notice me until I appeared at his open window. “I must apologise.” I said “for having the effrontery to overtake you. But do you think it just that my wife and children should also die?” It may have been a defensive gesture or an attempt to lock his door but I reached in, took hold of his trilby hat and rammed it down over his face. This could have been an early attempt at GAP (gravity assisted power) or simply a surge of adrenalin but I got back in my car as the lights turned green and he was still struggling to get his hat off as we drove by. It was totally bizarre but I do not exaggerate.

I pride myself in not taking offence on the road. If you make a mistake it is so easy to mouth “I am sorry” with an apologetic wave of the hand. This usually diffuses any aggression and if on the receiving end it is easy to ignore the fault even if you think “what a prat.” Some years ago I was in Bath, a city that I was unfamiliar with. I found that I was in the wrong lane. A taxi driver thought this a punishable offence. Leaping out of his cab he approached with a mouthful of obscenities. I casually told him not to be so silly. I was smiling not out of humour but what I could have done to him.

My last road rage incident does not really count because I was parked up at the time. About three years ago my chemo treatment made me quite ill and I had to go back to the hospital for advice. On the way home Cynthia stopped at a local store to get a loaf of bread. I lay back in the passenger seat feeling more dead than alive. I had noticed three workmen in the car park before closing my eyes. Suddenly I was startled. Someone had stuck their finger down my ear and they all ran off laughing. I was outraged. They would have seen a helpless old codger. What a diabolical liberty! They required a lesson in manners. At that moment my wife returned with the loaf. “Follow them.” I demanded. Like most females she required more information. “I only want to talk to them.” I told her but in my mind I was going to get close enough to down one of them and grab another. I expected the third to take flight and knew I would have no energy for pursuit. Cynthia started the car and drove me straight home.

I imagine that anyone practicing martial arts would have sufficient confidence to be tolerant especially as they get older and wiser. This is not always the case. My friend Gary Gillot (6th Dan, one time British International Light Heavyweight judoka) would frequently telephone when on the road, probably out of boredom. One Saturday he was driving his wife to the supermarket as he talked, another driver nipped into his parking space. “Just a minute Danny.” I heard, followed by “You bastard!” Then the unmistakable reaction of a woman under stress, Denise shouting down the phone “Oh God. Ring off he is having a fight!” As if by some miracle my putting down the phone would put things right. Gary really should have known better he was after all turned seventy with all the wisdom that should imply. It took months before I stopped answering Gary’s calls with “Are you in a car park?”

I am prompted to write this piece after yesterday’s news and the following newspaper report:-
“The group of four Qaeda-inspired fundamentalists admitted planning to send mail bombs to their targets during the run up to Christmas 2010 and discussed launching a Mumbai-style attack on Parliament. But they could all be out after just six years after the two ringleaders of the group were given an indication of their sentences before deciding whether or not to plead guilty. Mohammed Chowdhury, described as the group’s “lynchpin”, and Shah Rahman, his accomplice, pleaded guilty following a so-called Goodyear hearing where the judge gave them an indication of their maximum sentences should they plead guilty.
The judge, Mr Justice Wilkie, told Chowdhury, 21, that he would be sentenced to no more than 13 and half years, while Rahman, 28, was told he would be given 12 and a half years if he admitted his involvement in the plot. The two, along with fellow conspirators Gurukanth Desai, 30, and Abdul Miah, 25, admitted the charges of preparing for acts of terrorism after being made aware of the sentences they were likely to serve.”

Today we had the horrific news about a riot at an Egyptian football match that resulted in 700 dead and probably still rising! We are well aware of the Arab Spring that started as a quest for some sort of democracy and the overthrow of tyrants is in some cases resulting in civil war. Islamic countries in the Middle East and Africa are suffering internal conflict. The resultant rise of The Muslim Brotherhood and other anti West factions ultimately poses a threat to those living in the West.

Perhaps it has something to do with the climate. We are a cooler nation and usually more considered in our approach. Not that there has been no contagion but our protest march led riots have been by and large a result the lunatic fringe.

As the law stands, we can expect that the four admitted terrorists will be back on our streets in six years time. No doubt they will be under some costly surveillance but they are still likely to pose a threat. They cannot be deported because they are British citizens. Prison is unlikely to give them a change of heart.

There is a solution
It depends upon our British Muslims taking a quantum leap. They are entitled to enjoy the freedoms and benefits of their host nation but they should start thinking of themselves as British first and foremost, regardless of their country of origination, many of which are rife with corruption. There may be a media bias but so often we see so called ordinary Muslims making excuses for Islamic terrorism. This has to stop.

When in Rome at least live a little more like the Romans. Clothing suitable for the desert are not required for our city streets. They are a symbol of difference and have nothing to do with religion. There seems to have been a moral decline in Britain but Muslims need not follow that trend. In general people that are devoutly religious have higher ethics. However there is a good deal of Muslim criminality by those that have scant regard for non Muslims.

This is not meant to be a diatribe against Islam. I have many Muslim friends. It is an appeal for a change in attitudes. Let Muslims show their identity with this country and let non Muslims give them every encouragement. In that way we can change this climate of unrest and heal ourselves as one nation. Furthermore without the support of their peers it is unlikely that the four convicted terrorists will remain a serious threat once released.

This is one of my early attempts at satire, published many years ago in the old (Alan Menzies) Judo Magazine. It prompted a response from two senior referees. Judo rules and interpretations have often been contentious. This is not meant to criticise the current set up.

Last night I had an interesting dream and I feel sure that were it related to Joseph, (you remember the Biblical Dream interpreter with the flash coat) that he would warn us of the future development of European Judo. This development is not complimentary to our refereeing system. Normally it would be imprudent to criticise the referees, for fear that their antagonism might harm one’s contest career. As I have just badly damaged my knee at Teesside and am probably finished in any case, I have nothing to lose so I can relate my prophetic dream.

The venue was the familiar Crystal Palace. The date 1987. The event , The World Championships and I was watching the finals of the Open.

Both contestants were waiting on the mat for the arrival of the referee and judges. Suddenly a fanfare of trumpets and from one corner of the auditorium entered the referee. Triumphantly he makes his way to the mat. There he stands for a while in the centre, resplendent with his Olympic Referees Medal about his neck, acknowledging the tumultuous applause from the crowd. “Viva le Ref” they chant and one over excited youth attempts to climb the barrier to touch his hero. He is intercepted by a policeman and returns to his seat. Meanwhile the referee is warming up, much to the delight of the fans. Round and round he spins his arms like a drunken windmill, as he practices all his intricate hand signals.

Another fanfare of trumpets announces the entrance of the two judges, Her Bert and Sher Bert. These of course are the famous Bert brothers, whose unbiased decisions have made them great favourites. The ecstatic crowd cheer and wave their programmes as the judges take their positions and the linesmen hurriedly sweep the bouquets of flowers from the mat.

The M.C. announces the contest. “My Lords Ladies and Gentlemen, the next contest is for Open Weight Championship of the World. This is held under IJF rules and in the event of there being no disqualification by the end of time, the throws, submissions and hold downs will be calculated by your judges, the Right Honourable Bert Brothers. Your referee for the contest, Joe Bloggs MBE Double Olympic Referees Medalist and ex Captain of the Little Netherwallop Judo Team.”

The applause lasts a full four minutes. Obidoodledov, the giant 130 kilo contestant has to be excused. The long wait has affected his nerves. He knows the contest will be a tough one, for he faces Alexia Einstein, the 50 kilo Russian Grand Chess Master, whose knowledge of the rules is unrivalled in Europe.

At last the contest begins. The lighting is subdued and a huge spotlight shines on the referee. How splendid he looks. Hajemi and two dim figures gyrate around the mat. Mr. Blogg’s arms whiz around as he indicates the scores. Cocao, VictorHugo, Bonco, Banco, Wango. Suddenly the shadowy figure of Obidoodledov catches the Russian Grand Master with a tremendous throw. High up into the air he goes, 4 metres, 5 metres, 7 metres. The crowd gasps. Einstein lands flat on his back. Koka awards the ref. and then Son of Mummy as he penalises the Russian for passivity, for his flight took 4 seconds without a counter attack. Can the Russian make up the score? The contest has only been a minute and already he is down a Cocao and a Shito. But now it is only the connoisseurs that are able to follow the contest, for the fighters are near the edge of the mat and are no longer in the glow of the referee’s spotlight. This enables us to concentrate on the finer points. How magnificently the referee manages the contest. What beautiful interpretation of rule 369 appendix C paragraph 3. As expected the favourite Alexia Einstein wins with 16 Kei Cockups against 37 Cocoas.

At this point I awoke the perspiration trickling down my brow. So it was only a dream. I lit my bedside candle and reached for the reassuring softness of my Teddy Bear.

Those of you, who were at Teesside for the National Championships, will realise how easily this dream could become a reality. The refereeing is gradually dominating the whole atmosphere of the contest. Time and time again the continuity is broken by the referee’s application of the rules. Contestants frequently get annoyed when they are frustrated in this way. No longer is it natural for the best man to win. It seems more important to have a tactical knowledge of the rules. Surely the purpose of these rules in the first place was to safeguard the player. Later it was deemed necessary to penalise him if he stepped off the contest area. This was to stop the defensive player avoiding the techniques of the aggressive fighter. But all it did was to introduce a new game, that of Bluff me Over the Line. Therefore to keep the Judo more interesting we had the rule of Passivity. So now it is necessary to kick your opponent every few seconds to prove that you are not being passive. Ray Mitchel who must be one of the most respected referees, actually gave Passivity to a player after he had been thrown! I can understand him getting a Shido before the throw but it is very difficult to attack when you are already airborne. Really is it not time that the function of the referee was examined, so that players of average or in my case sub-intelligence can still enjoy the game?

“What am I saying!

I can feel my leg is getting better.

Dear referee, please kindly disregard this silly letter.”

(with apologies to Shelly Burman)

Last Friday I had the pleasure of attending the Plymouth Judo Club awards held in a local social club. We sat at a table with my old mate Alan Kimber, his wife Janet and the Lord Mayor, who managed to avoid a dowsing with a pint of beer due to my extravagant hand gesture. Just as well because he is trying to be helpful with the club’s project to self build a permanent dojo on council owned land. I the project will go ahead, provided they get adequate sponsorship.

There are not many purpose built dojos but once established, they do get results and benefit not only the locals but those within travelling distance. They also make ideal venues for County and Area training. Anyone that can suggest potential sponsors should contact Alan Kimber or me and I will pass the information on.

It was an interesting evening starting with the journey from home. We were to meet at the Kimbers home at 6.45 so that Alan could be there to greet the Lord Mayor. I trust my sat nav but thought I knew a better way to shorten the distance. We got lost. I had to call Alan who started to give directions when my signal failed. Eventually he rang back and I told him to leave the address of the venue, or leave Janet behind so he would not be late. We arrived just as he was leaving. Being in my company was all the excuse he needed for being late. Punctuality is not my forte. As the evening wore on I realized that I was being used. The Lord Mayor had left and Allen had continued the presentations. Out came the last presentation a magnificent Samurai Sword with a hand carved mahogany stand. “I want you to present this one Danny” said Allen, “Are you sure” I asked. “Yes Yes.” “And the award for the person that has done the most for the club is Shane Kimber.” I realised that had Allen presented it to his son, it would seem like nepotism; although it was genuinely deserved. Finally we were able to leave early as “Danny is not well.” So all in all I felt used but not a tart.

At the presentation I discovered a tip for people that have a job remembering names. You know how awkward it is when someone greets you by name. You remember the face but don’t have the foggiest idea of their name. I know some judoka respond with “How’s the injury?” but this is very hit and miss. You might be speaking to a referee. I generally find an enthusiastic “How are you?” does the trick but what do you do if your wife or partner is with you? An introduction is needed. I suppose you could get away with the enthusiastic greeting followed by “This is my wife.” but anyone half awake would realise that the introduction was incomplete. Anyway, out of the blue I found myself saying “Don’t think I am being rude. This is my girlfriend. I shan’t introduce you in case it gets back to the wife.” On reflection I thought this such a perfect response that I decided to share it.

Fighting Films are getting close to releasing Shinjido Downloads; the result of filming many skills some months ago. It is my hope that the downloads together with having an on mat experience with me at a seminar, will make it possible for coaches and players to include my concepts in their repertoire. I would therefore like to schedule some seminars fairly soon.

I need to take my health into consideration before planning any dates. Some of you will know that the tumours in my liver and lungs have progressed and the cancer count in my blood cells shot up. My oncologist wanted to procure a fairly new biological treatment to be taken in conjunction with chemo. Because my cancer count had risen to 78, ten times what it had been a year ago, she decided to commence chemo immediately. I had reacted badly to the previous chemo some 2 years ago, which had previously been very effective and enabled me to have surgery, so I have been put on an alternative chemo. Theoretically this should not be as successful as the previous chemo which was more designed to target the cancer. It is of an older vintage. However I am pleased to report that on the first three week cycle the cancer count in my blood went down from 78 to 47. By the end of the following three weekly cycle it went down to 27. I was unable to take the third cycle because my white blood cells had not made sufficient recovery; so it was put off a week. Yesterday I commenced the third cycle and the good news (hopefully) is that the biological treatment was approved and I had that yesterday as well. There are different after affects from both drugs, so I need to see how my body stands up to it before organizing more seminars.

I am optimistic and still believe that what does not kill you, makes you strong. My survival over the last two years has been due to my own immune system putting up resistance. I also like to think that my hands on attempt at self healing has been a help. I want to thank all those that have expressed good wishes towards me and to the believers that have included me in their prayers. It is a positive thing to have a faith and perhaps I shall have one someday. I continue to look for a sign but my logical brain cannot ignore that we are so insignificant in the scheme of things. When the universe contains more planets than we have grains of sand, it is beyond my comprehension that a supreme being could hear a prayer coming from someone as miniscule as a grain of sand divided by all the earth’s inhabitants. However scientific studies have been done that shows that the power of prayer exercised by many people at the same time, without the recipient knowing has produced healing.

I mention this because in many respects I feel lucky. You can always find someone far worse off than yourself. To illustrate the point here is an email I have received:-

hello, im a huge fan of yours danny, im 29 and was a pro wrestler and kick boxer, i am now as of 3 months ago terminally ill from an bone disease. they just took my left leg a month ago. this was my life and i feel like a piece of me has died ,but i am still fighting ,just in a diff, way. anyhow i know you are busy but can you send me a momento like a xxl shirt signed or a photo signed for my hospital wall so i can put it up there with my other idols. i think you are awesom ,i reside at upland indiana. please respond this means alot sir. god bless.

His name is Dave and I thought it better to withhold his address. Perhaps the kind hearted reader of my blog will pause a moment. Empathise with Dave. What would it be like if it were you or a loved one? Then extend a thought of good will and if so inclined, a prayer.

As a boy I read an autobiography written by an American or Canadian hunter. He kept an assorted pack of hunting dogs including a Great Dane. Frequently he would hunt bear. The dogs would keep the bear at bay allowing the mounted hunters to arrive and shoot their quarry. I am not in favour of hunting especially big game but I do admire courage. The dogs would close within five metres of a brown bear but would not go closer than ten metres of a cornered Grizzle. Among his retinue of dogs he had three bull terriers, a mother and two of her offspring. Being short legged they never accompanied the hunts except on one occasion.

The Bull Terriers went first class i.e. across the pommel of the riders saddles. As usual the hunters heard the baying of the hounds and the sound indicated a Grizzle. As they got closer the excitement became too much for the Bull Terriers. Leaping from their saddles they sped towards the quarry as fast as their short legs would carry them. The pack kept at their usual safe distance but the bull terriers did not know the rules. They hurled themselves against the awesome Grizzle. The mother took a grip under the throat, the other two each took hold of an ear. The enraged bear scraped off one of the dogs and as it sprung back to continue the attack, the bear caught it with a massive swipe, hurling the dog against a tree, which broke his back. He despatched the other dog in a similar manner but the mother was less assessable and she hung on until the hunters got close enough for a safe shot. A brutal anecdote but the hunter thereafter claimed, that the only dog that would tackle a Grizzle Bear was the Bull Terrier.

Reading about the character traits of the Bull Terrier, you find descriptions such as a loyal family pet, stubborn but not too bright. My experience differs; loyal absolutely, likewise stubborn but lacking in intelligence, certainly not and what about their terrific sense of humour?

I was sixteen at the time, living in Exmouth and decided I wanted a dog. It could be any dog as long as it was a Bull Terrier! From a canine magazine I found that a white male 3 month old pup was available. He was modestly priced being not show standard (he had black spots that became more visible when wet) Pups usually go to their new homes at seven or eight weeks. This was obviously the runt of the litter. Never mind he was a Bull Terrier. I bought him unseen and he arrived at Exmouth station in a wicker box. Maybe because I was the first person he saw in daylight after his journey, he decided that I was his master and he was overjoyed to see me. He seemed quite comical with a black patch around his eye and his tail wagging in a blur. In fact every morning I was to get a ritual welcome, not just a tail wag. He would scamper around the kitchen, going into ever decreasing circles until he was dizzy. You would think I had been away a month. But I digress.

We had a plumber working in the kitchen when I arrived home. Max, for I had already chosen his name, scrambled out of my arms, dashed across the kitchen and bit the plumber in the arse. Not a particular auspicious introduction to his new home but as I later realised, it was his terrific sense of humour; not that the plumber was amused.

Some might think he had the nature of a gangster but I must plead guilty for his training. He had no interest in fetching a ball but he did love tug of war with a stick; hanging on for dear life accompanied by ferocious growls. There was no risk that I might be bitten, it was just part of the game. In fact I could literally take a bone or the food out of his mouth; which is not something that many dogs would tolerate.

In our garage I had suspended a punch bag. I was right in thinking Max would like one to; so I suspended a car tire for him. He loved our workouts; me on the punch bag and him on the tyre. His enjoyment increased together with ferocity of his snarls whenever I would gently beat him between the ears with some rubber hose. In spite of these fighting games, he was not an aggressive dog. When we walked on the Mare parallel to Exmouth beach, he would greet other dogs with a waging tail. He was not looking for a fight until one day an Alsatian insisted in playing top dog, despite a warning growl. They started to scrap. Max was small for a Bull Terrier and it looked like he was getting the worse of it .The Alsatian’s owner was quite relaxed. “Let them sort it out he said.” His tune quickly changed when Max secured a hold on his adversary’ shoulder and started to shake as if on his rubber tyre. It was with some considerable effort that I got him off. The battered Alsatian limped away; he wanted no more of Max. My dog remained unaggressive but would never turn down a challenge, although he would ignore the posturing of smaller dogs. The pattern was always the same. As the fight began it would appear that he had met his match. But most dogs do not fight in earnest. They are willing to call it a day after a short scuffle. If there is a winner one of them will adopt the submissive posture. When Max fought, at the stage they wanted to stop, he was just getting started.

I hate to see dogs fight but I did not want to restrict him to being permanently on a lead. I read somewhere that a quick dowsing with water would break up a dog fight; so I took to carrying a plastic 5lb sweet jar of water on our walks. This seemed to work a treat until one morning on the beach. He had been in and out of the sea when a dog approached with erect tail looking for trouble. Never mind, I had my handy deterrent. They set to and I emptied my jar over Max once he had secured his hold. All the effect it had was to dilute the sea water.

Max did not live for a fight, although it was soon apparent that fighting was one of the joys of life. After every conflict, his tongue would loll out in an expression of laughter. Over the years he got quite scarred up and had many precautionary injections at the vets. He never weighed more than 48lb and he probably did not realise how small he was. As the saying goes “It’s not the dog in the fight. It’s the fight in the dog. He was a great character but he did have a wicked sense of humour.

One example of his little jokes, was the morning ritual with the postman. He would lay silently on the floor beneath our letter box, awaiting his arrival. As soon as the letters appeared, he would leap up, grab them and attempt to thrust his snout through the letter box. We never received any mail not indented with tooth marks.

When I was at home the pecking order of the household would change. I became number one and Max was number two. I was living with my parents and my two brothers who resented Max while having a sneaking regard for him. If I made a “Grrer” sound, this was his signal to chase someone out of the room. My brothers would back to the door in anticipation of this little game, not taking their eyes off Max but as soon as they turned “Grrer” or no “Grrer”, he would dash to get them. On one occasion he nipped my youngest brother in a place that at his age was embarrassing to show the nurse. Graham had the nick name Butch before that had certain connotations. For quite awhile he had to put up with Buchina.

My father, the real head of the household also had to endure Max’s ascendency when I was home. He had to back out of doorways; normally with a “Keep that xxxxxxx dog away from me.” One day the old man decided to shoot him. He had acquired a German gas gun used for self protection. Having been an engineer during the war, he modified it to fire a pellet. Thus equipped, the big game hunter backed towards the door; an open invitation to be chased. He shot Max in the head. As I dug out the pellet, Max was clearly laughing, that was fun wasn’t!

Cynthia, my girl friend from Eastbourne (later to become my first, second and final wife) came to live with us and join the family firm. Max readily accepted his change in status. I was number one, Cyn became number two and he dropped down to number three. If number one Grrered at number two, he still felt it his duty to chase her out of the room. I decided that we needed to extend the dog’s vocabulary. He was very protective but I did not want Cyn to be approached by strangers should she take Max for a walk alone. Pointing at someone and saying “Grrer” seemed somewhat antisocial. The solution came about through our training sessions in the garage. Now when he hung from his tyre, as I gave him the ritual beating with the rubber hose, I would say “No Max.” The more I would say “No Max” the more ferocious he would appear. Perfect, now Cynthia could walk the dog; if anyone came close he would give a warning growl. The reprimand “No Max” would incite him into a torrent of rage. No one would get near her.

He had a gangster’s sense of humour. One Summer season, Cyn and I ran an Old Fashioned Humbugge Shop in Weston Super Mare. Our main stay was sticks of lettered rock which were delivered in boxes protected by strips of cellophane off cuts. During a slack period we would restock the shelves, casting the protective wrapping on the floor behind the counter. Max invented a new game. He would take a bone and bury it among the cellophane debris. Then he would walk away, waiting for one of us to approach the bone, before launching a mock attack. He never tired of this little jest, even when we tricked him with a two pronged attempt to get his bone. It was all a joke. He would never have bitten us. As mentioned before we could take the bone out of his mouth without the slightest risk.

Still, he did have a wicked streak. Somehow we adopted a stray kitten that came into the shop. We were not too sure how Max would react to this, until one afternoon in our backroom. The kitten was curled up in a little basket. Max approached very softly. He paused by the basket with one paw hovering in the air. “Look” said Cyn “See how gentle he is being.” No sooner had the words escaped her lips than Max pounced. It seemed certain that the kitten would be in the past tense. Incredibly, fast as Max was, the cat proved to be faster. It was out of the basket in the blink of an eye, leaving one of his 9 lives behind him.

Because Bull Terriers are sometimes labelled as being stupid, it’s worth my mentioning an incident of extreme canine intelligence. Opening doors presented Max with no problem at all. As you would expect from a gangster dog. I am not talking of long handled doors, rather the round variety that have to be turned. I dislike drafts, so I taught him to close the door after him. This was something that every dog should be taught. It makes environmental sense to keep your living room warm and save energy. I simply placed a tit bit on top of the door. When it was slammed shut, the treat would fall to the floor. Admitted this can be taught to any dog but Max was exceptionally quick on the up take. I only had to slam him head first into the door twice, with the command “Shut the door,” before he got the message. After a while he would shut the door having forgotten there should have been a treat. This apparent consideration would amaze any newcomer to our household.

One exceptional thing that he worked out for himself, was opening car windows. Some of you may remember the small triangular back windows that we used to have. To open them entailed pressing in a catch and pulling up the small lever. This self taught achievement was not only very clever, it was another example of his sense of humour. (In that department, as I write, I realise how much we had in common.) Obviously he could not get out of the car by opening the window but he could have a good joke which never ceased to amuse him. In those days, there were no self service petrol stations. Your tank would be filled by an attendant and the tank was just beneath the triangular window. Max would release the catch as I drove into a garage. He would sit innocently on the back seat looking forward until the nozzle was being inserted, whereupon he would attempt to ram his head through the window. The reaction he got would produce his evil, tongue extended laugh. Compare this with your neurotic pooch who mock attacks anyone approaching their owners car – gutless wonders.

The Bull Terrier has a justly deserved reputation for being stubborn. They are also inclined towards deafness an apparent trait in albinos (white dogs.) I am not so sure of the latter. I think they are inclined to hear what they want to hear. My dog could hear perfectly but he once demonstrated extreme patience and extended my reputation for forgetfulness.

We were on the move from Exmouth to Torbay. A pal provided a lorry for our furniture. Everything was ready to go. I called Max. He was nowhere to be seen. An extensive search was fruitless. The day was wearing on and the removal had to continue. I rang the police to report a missing dog and off we went. I returned to Exmouth three days running, trying to find Max. Finally I thought of looking in our second garage. This was being used to store a friend’s vintage Jaguar car. As I opened the door, I saw a pair of white ears behind the steering wheel. Was Max relieved to see me and in more ways than one, for he had not peed or pooed for three days. Nor were there any destructive signs in the car. Extraordinary when I consider that in his younger days, he literally ate my car’s steering wheel out of sheer boredom.

Sadly my gangster dog came to a gangsters end. By this time Cynthia and I were married and within a year or so, expecting our first child, Sharon. My father was concerned that Max would be jealous of the baby. I was running our Exmouth business and my parents were living in the flat over our Paignton shop. Although Max accepted the baby without reservation, I gave in to my father for his peace of mind. Max was to stay in Paignton for a while. He had the freedom of the yard together with the rear of the shop. My mother would spoil him. She would snack on coconut ice or fudge as if they were a meal and Max was well over indulged. One afternoon some children were teasing an Alsatian in a car parked outside the shop. The aggressive barking caught Max’x attention and he came out of the yard to investigate. Our sales lady attempted to stop him getting out but he did not recognise her authority. He bit her and she screamed. Then he totally lost the plot, gripping her arm and dragging her across the floor. My mother had the presence of mind to dowse him with a pint of milk and he let go. He seemed apologetic as he returned to the yard but the damage had been done. He had bitten through her corset and also broke her arm.

Inevitably Max had to be put down. The thought of it still saddens me. The vet was not going to take any chances. He had given Max injections before, which were received without flinching but somehow this was different. I had to give Max a huge sleeping pill, which was probably enough to kill him anyway. He was given a last meal of his favourite food, together with the pill. As he got drowsy, he laid on my lap. I petted him as he drifted into unconscious and the vet administered the final injection.

They say there are no problem dogs just problem owners. Max should have been handled better. I should have known better. In my defence I can only say that he was most unusual and I was young. I have had other dogs since, many of them Bull Terriers, some even named Max but none have compared with the original. One’s perspective of life changes once you have children. Pets lose their importance. So now when I walk the dog, it is Cynthia’s Standard Poodle. She is intelligent and I am told , a good companion. She does not have the fancy Poodle clip, not that I would be bothered. In fact she looks a bit like a dog (I mean the Poodle not my wife) But every year one of my daughters buys me a pictorial wall calendar. Can you guess? Yes a Bull Terrier for every month of the year.

For me comfort rules over fashion. Were I as famous as David Beckham, no doubt my comfort would create fashion. I have never worn a sarong but then my dress code is not meant to say “Look at me.” Rather it has been an attempt to make ordinary garment more functional. An early example was the overcoat that I wore at Eastbourne Grammar School. It was a hand me down Crombie with massively draped shoulders and a tie belt; a sensible Winter garment. I used to fill the pockets with Kleenex tissues, whenever I had a slight cold. Now Kleenex work better straight out of the box, rather than being pocket crumpled. I solved this problem and saved money by threading a toilet roll through the belt. Necessity is the Mother of invention. As a fashion statement it fell on deaf ears, perhaps my school mates did not possess a suitable belt. I did not feel odd wearing my accoutrement until one afternoon that Cynthia, seated with her mother on a double decker bus, pointed down at her new boyfriend. “There he is mum.” To which the aghast response was “What him!” I like to think that she was commenting on my school cap, precariously perched on my head rather than the addition to my coat.
Track suits are very sensible for most athletes. They keep you warm between events and they are comfortable. However they are not suitable for judoka. The gi’s are far too bulky to fit inside a track suit. I addressed myself to this problem about 40 years ago. A warm dressing gown makes so much more sense. Because I lived quite close to our Judo Club in Torquay, I would change at home and drive there in my dressing gown. It was a perfectly natural and sensible thing to do. After one evening’s training I fancied a glass of shandy. Walking down the road, I became aware that I was being followed by a police car. As it drew to a halt alongside an officer enquired if I was lost. He accepted my explanation but did suggest that I did not stay out too long.
I was not self conscious about my dressing gown but it did not catch on. it seemed that people were quite happy to be seen with me in my dressing gown as long as the association was at arm’s length. On one occasion I changed at home as usual and departed for area squad training in Barnstable. Cynthia came with me as we would be meeting up with our great friends the Hicks family. During the lunch break we found a cafeteria and it was explained that I was taking part in a bed promotion in a local store.
The officials had arranged to have dinner in a smart hotel. Gerry Hicks the area coach invited Cynthia and I to join them. He was not put off by the fact that I had not brought any clothes with me. It would take a lot more than that to offend his sensibilities. Spud Murphy on the other hand thought it was not right but he was overruled. It was a pleasant evening. I sat alongside an official from my club, whose son had just passed his driving test. Tom took his car keys and offered them to his son. “Would you like to take the car. I will come back with Danny.”
We left considerably later. I have never had too much to drink, except for the time that I got drunk as an experiment and made myself violently sick. Anyway, Tom sat in back and we started for home. At that time I drove a Peugeot 2002 Ti which had soft suspension but uncanny road holding. My previous car was a BMW 202 Ti, a very precise little car with sports suspension was no match for the Peugeot for road holding. It was a very foggy night but in those days I could see deeper into the fog than others. We reached a one way section getting close to Newton Abbot, which used to twist and turn every 50 yards. Being considerate I was not driving at my usual speed. In the back of the car, I could hear the subtle rustling of sweet papers being unwrapped. Then of a sudden “bluerk, bluerk, bluerk” Tom was being violently sick.
I did not want him to feel bad as I opened my window as far as it would go. The stench was awful. “Tom we will soon be home.” – No answer from Tom. He owned a hotel, The Sceptre lodge, which was directly on route to our home. As he got out of the car, in an effort to put him at ease, I said “Don’t worry about the mess Tom. I will clean and disinfect it when I get home.” I must have misjudged his silence. “I shall never get in a car with you again as long as I live!”
I still believe in the virtue of the dressing gown over the track suit. I once told a wealthy uncle,
that I admired his multi coloured towelling dressing gown. He jokingly said he would leave it to me. He owned an expensive block of shop property in Newquay. When he died, some twenty years ago did not get the property but I did inherit the dressing gown. It is rather tattered now but I still on occasion wear it over my gi. The last time it was worn in anger was during the World Masters in Ireland. Before the finals, I thought I would take a look around the local shops. Going around in a little world of my own, I thought nothing of it until making my way back through a multi story car park. The attendant was in discussion with a policeman. Once again my explanation was accepted without reservation. But when I last heard, wearing dressing gowns in Irish streets has not become fashion.

I like motorway service stations. Everything is overpriced but the toilet facilities are generally clean and at no charge they represent value for money. They can also provide amusing interludes to break your journey.

On one occasion, on my way into the shopping area, I was accosted by an attractive young woman, promoting American Express. It was during a period that as an un- discharged bankrupt through the loss of my business, I was ineligible for any form of credit. I had been stopped on other occasions by zealous sale people promoting credit cards and would normally say “I am not interested but thank you.” This young lady had a determined look. She almost blocked my path. “Can I interest you in American Express?” She asked “We are running a special promotion.” Not wishing to sound too blunt before such enthusiasm, I lapsed into gibberish “Spreken yune vartegordan?” I enquired. She shrugged a clear indication that she did not; so I continued. “Unt spragen zine flinkal bottom. Et tu sufarton gongarton.” Realising that I was not a good prospect she touched my arm and said very slowly, “I’m sorry. This is just for English people.” Ah zoot.” I replied “you tucha my arm and all at once I understand every word you say.”

She took my little joke well. I briefly explained that I was not eligible for a credit card but some of my prospective customers might be and it could help them purchase my product. I took a number of her application leaflets and continued my way into the services. Feeling peckish, I took a large bar of fruit and nut chocolate and a carton of fresh orange. At the checkout I was asked for £2.95. Instinctively I proffered an American Express leaflet. The girl looked bewildered. “£2.95 sir.” she repeated. “Si Americano Expresso.” I replied, once again indicating the leaflet. She tried more slowly “Sir that will be £2.95.” Si si.” I said more excitedly “Americano Expresso, Americano Expresso.” I have noticed this before. The training of shop staff does not prepare them to deal with me when I change character. She had a suited supervisor by her till. “What do I do?” She asked him. He did not respond. his training was equally inadequate. I made my way to the exit. Once clear I returned to the counter and to her relief asked “Do you accept change?”

On the way out I saw a sign which read “Children Eat Free.” It was irresistible. I went in the cafeteria and asked “Whata Time doesa the children eata free finito.” “it’s on all day sir” I was told. “Gooda. I hava 9 children. I go home now and fetch.” “No it does not work like that.” was no deterrent. “I go home fetcha children for 6 o’ clock tonight. muchas graciarse.”

Feeling quite cheerful, I made my way towards my car and was accosted once again. This time by a foreign seeming person that wanted to show me a terrific bargain. He opened the boot of his car which contained some very smart leather and suede jackets. He had been to a fashion show. He had lost his wallet with his return ticket to Italy and was disposing of the display items. “Buy this.” He said showing me a nice jacket “and I will give you this one,” indicating another but different style “and also this beautiful ladies costume.” The leather was soft, wonderful quality but I had quite recently been conned into buying a watch at the same service station. The story that time was that they were given away to everyone that tried a new Jaguar car, as a special promotion. A few people had not turned up, so they had some spare watches at a knock down price. They looked great in their boxes and the catalogue showed the recommended price, so I ended up doing a deal. Needless to say the watches turned out to be OK but not worth the money I had paid.

Twice bitten once shy – goes the saying. I hesitated to buy the leather jacket. The salesman then produced his trump card. A cigarette lighter, the flame of which he applied to my jacket. Because at that instant in my mind, it was mine and I did not want it damaged. I drew some cash from the dispenser and the transaction was made. I was not even too alarmed at the speed that he departed in his car. After all he had to get back to Italy.

Getting home that night, I was quite pleased with myself. Cynthia would love the beautiful leather costume. It would more than make up for my poor purchase of the watch. She was in the lounge and thinking understatement might be best, I laid the garments out on our chaise longue in the hall, without mentioning them. She left to fetch my supper but was back within seconds. “They are not leather.” She said. “What do you mean they’re not leather. They are wonderful quality. I have never felt such soft leather. They are Italian.” “They are plastic. Smell them!”

She was right of course. Let this be a warning to you – do not buy anything from a motor service way car park. If you need a watch or a nice plastic jacket, simply come to me.

I have just finished watching one of my Christmas presents, Huizinga Total Judo. My advice to any serious judoka or coach is, get it before the first edition is sold out. The title Total Judo is most apt. Mark Huizinga’s approach is extremely professional. The DVD set contains 25 techniques which Huizinga has made his own and includes some unique newaza. Each technique is clearly shown in every aspect. There are many examples of him using each technique in top level competition. For the record, over a fourteen year period, he has won 12 European Championship medals including five titles; three Olympic medals, including Gold in 2000 and an incredible thirteen World Cup and Grand Prix titles.

He reminds me of world class boxers that enter the ring with a game plan. Together with his coach, he would study opponents to arrive at the suitable game plan. During contests he would get feedback from the coach. Should he spot a weakness, a coded sign or word would be given; otherwise a thumbs up to continue with the plan. Such was the confidence of Team Huizinga, that a thumbs up would be given even if a Shido down. He literally had a range of skills for any opponent.

This attention to detail seems poles apart from my personal experience and certainly different from current star Ilias Iliadis, who it would appear just takes every opponent as they come. Iliadis is a super star but when matched against Huizinga in the Beijing Olympics, Huizinga was aware of his opponent’s strengths and had a game plan worked out in advance, which he felt would give him the match. In the event he scored by ippon and much easier than he had anticipated; a sterling example of Total Judo.

Huizinga began judo at the tender age of four. He was not particularly talented but by the time he was fifteen he could beat anyone in his local club, which mainly catered for juniors. He was a big fish in a small pond until moving to a club in Rotterdam. There he discovered that his judo was not so hot after all. But he was dedicated and determined to give his judo 100%. The rest is history.

What I found most absorbing with his DVD, is the way that he adapts techniques to suit himself. The variations all seem better than the traditional way. I can also see the use of what I call GAP – gravity assisted power, although not as significant as in Shinjido. Furthermore he is very keen on innovation. He has been doing this for more years than I have been preaching the need for it. In his own words “Fighting for fifteen years gets boring without coming up with new things. You also need to produce something new for opponents.” Now having retired from competition, he wants to develop new skills to pass onto coaches and fighters. Doubtless without the need to cater for his own performance, he will discover much to pass on, which can only add to his legacy.

Give yourself a New Year’s treat. Order a copy from www.fighting films.com now.