Last Saturday, I took my six-year-old son and seven-year-old daughter to the gym at a local school so they could take a karate ‘exam’. If they passed, they would be eligible for a white belt with red stripes — the first rung of the ladder in the Shukokai Karate Association.
I have to confess to a certain scepticism about the usefulness of this ‘martial art’. I initially thought it might provide Sasha and Ludo with a way of fending off potential muggers, but I now realise it’s the karate instructors themselves who are doing the mugging. Apart from the cost of the weekly lessons (£10.90), there’s the kit (£26), the ‘master classes’ (£26) and the accessories (£££s). As if that isn’t enough, before you can take the exam you need to pay for a minimum of ten lessons (£109) and purchase an annual karate licence (£36). Oh, and the exam itself costs £26. There are 14 belts in total, so to reach the highest level — black belt with four red tabs — you need to shell out £364 in exam costs alone.
‘It’s a complete rip-off,’ I told Sasha when she was pleading with me to let her take the test.
‘Oh come on, Dad. We’ll look like idiots if we don’t have our red-and-white belts.’
‘On the contrary, the red-and-white belt is a sign that you’re an idiot for being suckered into this ridiculous Ponzi scheme.’
I lost the argument, obviously, but I wasn’t happy about it. On the way in to the gym I asked one of the officials if any child ever failed this ‘exam’. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘They all pass, even the littlest ones.’ She said this in a reassuring tone, as if I was concerned that my own jelly-limbed little brats might not be up to scratch. I couldn’t resist pointing out that if was impossible to fail then it didn’t really deserve to be called an ‘exam’, did it? It was a case of all must win prizes — or, rather, all must have red-and-white belts.
I dragged myself up to the balcony to watch, a prospect that filled me with dread. The entire ordeal was due to last an hour and 45 minutes. This was bound to be one of those periods during a parent’s day when you start working yourself up into a rage thinking about the sheer volume of time wasted. How would I feel about those precious minutes on my deathbed? I would rage, rage against the dying of the light — and the time spent watching f***ing karate.
In fact, it turned out to be quite interesting. I mean from a sociological point of view. The other people watching were, as you’d expect, middle-class dads like me. No working-class person could afford these astronomical prices. And the contrast between the mild-mannered, emasculated figures on the balcony and the real men down below couldn’t have been more striking.
The karate instructors were all sergeant major types, yelling at their little charges as if they were a bunch of fresh recruits. Every command was delivered in a curt, authoritative way that brooked no dissent. It reminded me of a BBC documentary I once saw about young offenders being given a short, sharp shock. I wasn’t just shelling out hundreds of pounds so Sasha and Ludo could get red-and-white belts. I was paying for them to experience life in a Siberian labour camp.
The amazing thing was that all the children did exactly as they were told. And it wasn’t just because they were scared of incurring the instructors’ wrath. It was also because of the clear boundaries, the unambiguous chain of command. They had no ‘rights’. There were no complaints that it wasn’t ‘fair’ when they were told to face off against people twice their size. They just snapped to it. It was like being transported back into the 1950s — and they absolutely loved it.
It was fascinating, but it was also humiliating. Not only had the chumps on the balcony allowed these karate men to pick their pockets — thank you, Sensei — but we then had to watch while they delivered an object lesson in where we were going wrong as parents. ‘Call yourselves fathers?’ these muscle-bound figures seemed to be saying. ‘You’re just a bunch of girls’ blouses. Shut up and watch how real men go about it — and then hand us your wallets on the way out.’
You think I exaggerate, but one of these brutes blocked my path as I tried to leave and rattled a collection bucket in front of me. I flashed him what I thought was a defiant look and he just shook his head with pity. I humbly fished out a 50p piece, placed it in his bucket and went on my way.
Toby Young is associate editor of The Spectator
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