A few times on this blog I have mentioned the fact that I do martial arts. I have mentioned it because it is true. Hence my use of the word ‘fact’ in the sentence above.

However, it would be entirely out of character for me to claim to be any good at martial arts. It suits the narrative far better to claim that, while I do show up, I’m no great shakes at the whole thing.

And from my perspective, this is broadly true. I don’t actually view myself as being good at any sport. If one can consider doing martial arts a sport—which the organisers of the Olympic Games do, though some martial artists don’t. They see it as more of… well… an art.

And while I can hardly escape the claim that I am somewhat pedantic, I wouldn’t wish to overly commit to pedantry here. It’s pretty hard to argue that an activity which features in the Olympic Games is not a sport, and yet I would also acknowledge that some of the finest practitioners of martial arts that I’ve known over the years could absolutely be described as artists.

I am not an artist. In that respect at least. Writing is, of course, an art, and I like to imagine I am not without a little ability in that arena. I’m not one to brag, but I think I can string a sentence together in a manner that transcends the functional.

So my humility when it comes to my martial arts prowess is genuine. I find it hard to imagine, on any level, that I could be considered any good.

And yet somehow, a week or so ago, I was permitted to grade for my black belt. Which in the current style I choose to follow is actually a dark navy blue belt. But the colour is of no import. It is, in every sense barring the actual colour, a black belt. And I was deemed worthy of the honour.

Which is actually pretty cool, but also causes something of an existential crisis. Because for me to carry on asserting that I’m not really that good at martial arts would serve as something of an insult to all the other people who have achieved the status of being a black belt. And I wouldn’t want to insult them because:

1. It is a genuine achievement.
2. They’re actually pretty good at fighting, and it’s just not wise to insult people who are pretty good at fighting.

So I suppose I must accept that I am quite good at martial arts. And actually, the ceremony I had to go through to move from the status of ‘not having a black belt’ to that of ‘having a black belt’ was quite brutal. And I survived it.

Arguably the most gruelling part of the day was the drive there.

In order to be deemed worthy of the honour of the black belt, I had to be assessed by the man who we all call ‘The Grand Master’. Now you might be inclined to mock that title, but you’d be well-advised not to mock the man who holds the title. He is genuinely quite scary. Not intentionally. He intends to come across as amenable and friendly and he is those things, but you can never quite escape the reality that he could hurt you in lots of very creative ways if he so chose.

Anyway, the Grand Master lives in Essex, which means circumnavigating the M25. Everyone who circumnavigates the M25 deserves recognition irrespective of their motivation. But I was doing it to get my black belt. And it was a hot day. Which doesn’t render the M25 any more pleasant.

So when I arrived I was pretty tired and slightly dehydrated. But there was no time to acclimatise. No sooner had I exited the car than I was very much in the midst of the assessment. There wasn’t even time to empty my bladder. Which was unfortunate from a comfort perspective, although perhaps that was part of the test.

Part of what I had to do was demonstrate that I could do the required forms. If the martial art I did was Karate, then these would be known as katas. But it isn’t, so they aren’t. I’m not too bad at those as it goes, so actually I didn’t mind that bit. Although I did quite badly need to empty my bladder throughout, which added a frisson of excitement to the whole thing.

That went on for quite a long time, and even though I’m not terrible at the forms, I was tired, dehydrated and full-bladdered, so I was quite relieved when the break came and I could take care of the bladder and then down a bottle of water, which potentially could have meant a revisiting of the bladder situation, but which didn’t.

Part two was where things got a little more serious. I had to demonstrate my fighting ability. Against someone who was already a black belt. And indeed someone who had been a black belt for at least 12 years, based on the number of stripes he had on his belt.

I wasn’t worried. The really advanced practitioners always go easy on us novices.

Except I was auditioning to no longer be a novice.

So the Grand Master issued my opponent with an instruction.

And the instruction was: “Test him.”

Test him!

He sounded like a Bond villain.

And I’m no James Bond.

Although I am called James, so I did have half a chance.

After what seemed like an eternity of being subjected to another man trying to kick me in the head, I was deemed to have taken enough punishment and could move on to the final part of the assessment. Which involved breaking boards with my feet.

Now this might sound horrible, but actually the boards in question are designed to be broken. Assuming you kick them in exactly the right place. Otherwise you will find yourself kicking a solid wooden block, which is designed to withstand multiple high-level martial artists kicking it over a number of years. Which can hurt your foot.

I am not good at this. I tend to hurt my feet when I do this. I did not want to participate. Particularly when under the scrutiny of a man who is unironically known as the Grand Master.

Frankly, if I’m bad at it when there is absolutely no pressure on me, I could only imagine how dreadful I would be under these circumstances. Except I didn’t have to imagine. Because I was living it.

I started with a kick that I am usually quite good at. And I missed the target and made contact with the solid wood.

And hurt my foot.

I was told to go again.

Somehow, and I’m still not sure how, I managed to succeed, eventually, with eight out of the ten kicks I had to perform. This meant I passed the grading. I mean, I probably passed because I paid the grading fee. I don’t think they let you turn up if they think you’re going to fail, so I should have had more faith in myself. But I think, on balance, I did deserve to pass.

So there we go. I’m a black belt. Who will forever have to wear a dark navy blue belt.

I can no longer say I’m bad at martial arts and I now need to accept my greatness.

Fortunately, the black belt does come with its own caveat: by achieving it, you are admitting that you are at the beginning of your martial arts journey and will never achieve perfection.

So apparently, I am still quite bad.

Which is something of a relief.