(89) ''The Inspiration To Become Strong'

[Ken]

Sometimes in my current state of early old age, my wife Jenny will see me struggling to lift something and she'll tell me to be careful, recently she added, "So much for your boast that you'd always be strong!"  She was right, I did think I'd always be strong and I was for the best part of my adult life.  However, everything that has a beginning also has an end, including strength.  So lets start this story at the beginning, when my desire to be strong was born.  It was in the Shamley Green of of the mid 1950's and I was in the living room of our Hullmead home.  My elder brothers had been flexing their muscles and I'd seen them all compete at arm wrestling and I'd seen Bob win.  I'd witnessed them attempt to raise our heaviest dining room chair above their heads while just gripping a front leg at its lowest point and only Bob could do it. "Do the table lifting," I begged my hero brother, and Bob squatted beneath our large and heavy living room table to please me.  He positioned himself in the middle of the table and he found the right spot to balance it.  He then slowly lifted the entire table of the ground with just his head.  No hands at all were used as he remained for some time on his knees with that heavy table on just his head.  I thought that was the most amazing feat of strength I'd ever seen and vowed that one day I too would do it!

Bob would sometimes repeat that feat to please me and secretly, as I grew up, I too tried it but without success.  It was the same with arm wrestling and to aid me in my efforts I used my paper round money to buy a chest expander.  My objective was to beat Bob and nothing else mattered.  However, even though I could beat the majority of my friends by my late teens, I couldn't budge Bobs arm a single inch. How I hated the smug grin on his face as he seemed to hold me effortlessly and then, at a time of his choosing, his grin would become a chuckle as he'd slam my arm down on the table.  "One day big brother, one day I'll do that to you," I'd mutter to myself, and I did, but I had to wait for several years.  I found arm wrestling to be strangely addictive and in these reminisces I'll tell of many triumphs.  I'll also tell of some amusing events and how on one occasion victory led to my life being threatened.  But in the main, arm wrestling was just good competitive fun and for years I excelled at it. "Is that not true Mr Malcolm Scott?"

Malcolm has been a very close friend since we met in the early 1970's.  I was approaching my peak in the brute strength department around that time and, although it is nothing to boast about, I took delight in grasping any of my friends hands and, with fingers interlocked, squeezing them extremely tightly.  I'd then use my strength to make them bob up and down like demented Yo-yo's, just because I could.  I once greeted Malcolm in this fashion and realised immediately that he was someone I couldn't do that to, for his grip oozed strength.  As the years passed Malcolm often spent time with my friends and I, but, with the memory of that grip in mind, I never suggested any strength tests when he was near.  I suppose I enjoyed being the top dog so why risk defeat, for I'd seen Malcolm beat strong people at arm wrestling, far quicker than I could.  Two other friends, Alan Perfett and Pete Prentice, both strong people, he annihilated in seconds in the Bricklayers arms one evening, and they suggested he could even beat me.  Malcolm was up for a go and, with his arm set ready, he challenged me.  I declined his offer, pointing out he'd been beating people all night long. I said I would take him on soon, when he was at his strongest, so he'd have no excuses when he lost. Somehow everyone believed my words, but I knew I was running scared!

Before I tell you about the outcome of that titanic struggle, let me touch on an arm wrestling event that took place in the home of Eric Clapton's mother.  I mention the name of the famous guitarist purely to point out that this didn't occur in any of our usual haunts.  Why we were there I'll explain in a future Cosy story, but that evening was unusual because hardly anyone knew me.  A lot of alcohol was being consumed when a would be macho man started the arm wrestling challenges and, of course, I was soon involved.  As I expected, I won every contest and if any of my readers are thinking, "What a bighead," let me state one truth about me.  I freely admit to being useless at football, cricket, rugby, tennis, badminton, bowls, golf, and almost every other sport known to mankind.  That's a fact and I'm not ashamed to say it.  It's also a fact that for years I've excelled at arm wrestling.  So I'll show no false modesty and admit to that too.  

Later that evening I came up against a big chap who I was told was their champ and we gripped our right hands, both ready for glory.  It was a far from easy contest but eventually it was I who triumphed and he congratulated me.  We were still facing each other over the table with a crowd gathered around us when he challenged me to an immediate left handed match.  Nobody was interested when I explained that I'd once broken my left arm in a motorbike accident and no longer wrestled with it.  "Excuses, excuses," came the good natured replies and the big chap was adamant I should try. A fun idea suddenly came to me, so I agreed, but insisted we should first stretch our legs.  Having done so, we sat down, both ready for battle!  

This time I purposely sat on the opposite side of the table and announcing loudly, "It's left handed then," for all to hear and I put my right arm up.  As I'd hoped, he gripped it with his.  As I explained earlier, much alcohol had been consumed by everyone that night and nobody, not even my opponent, was aware we were doing it right handed again.  I beat him quite easily in this second bout and as I quickly stood up, I ensured he arose as well.  As we replenished our drinks he sadly confided that he'd never been beaten left handed before and I could see he was put out by losing his unbeaten record.  I did not, however, confess to my subterfuge and tell him his record was still intact for I was chuffed with my successful con trick.  I'd learned when I was very young that misdirection is the art of the illusionist and that's what I'd attempted when changing seats and, in doing so, my inventive guile fooled everyone.  I awarded myself a new title,  Ken Tuffs, Bullsh*tter extraordinaire!

Another evening some years later could have had a far less agreeable outcome.  It occurred a few days after Christmas and I was in one of the Shamley Green pubs.  Everyone of my ilk was going to a party somewhere in Bramley and I was persuaded to join them for a few hours.  It was a mistake and I don't like making errors of judgement for I found myself in a house full of undesirable types.  This was years before the age of the mobile phone and I found there was no traditional phone in the house either.  I could not, therefore, immediately call Wilf, my faithful cabbie.  I decided I'd stay for a short time out of politeness and soon, with a drink in my hand, I was enjoying chatting to the few decent people who were there, most of whom were the people I'd arrived with.  I'd made it clear this was not my sort of place but I bucked up slightly when some people started arm wrestling. The one who obviously considered he was the top dog was informed I was also good at this ancient art.  I knew of the man's family and had never liked them for they were a quick tempered lot.  This one, who was called Nicky, was to prove that he was no exception to the rule.  Whenever we'd met he'd always had the insistent habit of addressing me as, Kenny Tuffs, and for some reason I found that irritating.  It did so that evening when he said arrogantly, "Reckon you can take me Kenny Tuffs?"

"Of course I can," I said as I accepted his challenge.  I added to annoy him, "By the way, there's no shame in being beaten by Kenny Tuffs."  I often used that line for it amused me but I could tell it didn't amuse nasty Nick.  We gripped hands and I squeezed tightly and in the blink of an eye I beat him effortlessly.  "I wasn't ready," he loudly insisted, so we did it again, with the same result.  "There's no shame in being beaten by Kenny Tuffs," I said with a grin and everyone laughed, but not Nicky.  He was suddenly standing up and a knife had appeared in his hand.  He was actually crying with rage and he threatened he would kill me, shouting loudly that I'd made a fool of him.  A friend of mine, called Richard Gauley, aka, Itchie Ball, told him not to be such an idiot. Nicky immediately swivelled the knife in Itchie's direction and threatened him as well.  I have always been able to appear calm and I'm told I did so on that evening of stupidity.  Soon the threat was over and Nicky sat, with some of his cohorts, glaring in my direction and I told my friends that this was not the place for me.  As I said my goodbyes at the open front door they warned me it was at least a miles walk to a phone box where I could call for a taxi.  "No it's not," I grinned, for at that moment a taxi drew up, bringing some other poor fool to the so called party.  I jumped in the cab and with a cheery smile said, "Guildford please," to the driver.  My grinning friends waved as I departed.  I grinned too, for my famous good fortune had struck yet again!

At that time, and for years after, the way things always turned out well for me was almost spooky, I confess to being amused at the way my luck constantly held.  But as that years Football FA Cup Final Day approached, I wondered if the annual get together at my house would see my arm wrestling record last.  I had sent out my usual, pompous but fun, command letters to most of my friends telling them where we could meet. ( See my Cosy story No.18. ) I knew that there would be a lot attending for I had been forced to promise that after the soccer match, Malcolm Scott and I would have the long awaited Arm Wrestling competition I had avoided for so long.  For months I had used the most plausible and ingenious excuses so I could hold onto my coveted crown but on that day there was no way the contest could be avoided. So battle would take place!

As we knelt on the carpet with a stout table between us, the two of us locked hands.  Malcolm's big hand gripping my even bigger one.  He started to squeeze, so I did so too, as we awaited the start signal.  Such was the pressure we both applied I almost expected our fingers to start bleeding.  Malc was grinning, a tad over confident I wondered?  I commented that an era was about to end for I knew Malcolm was better than me.  It was Martin Elliott who gave the order to start and the strangest thing happened for I felt an immense power surge through me.  A strength was there like I'd never known and I squeezed Malcolm's hand like a vice.  I saw his face register an astonished expression and suddenly his mighty arm crashed onto the table. It had taken just seconds and I realised I had won with an unheard of ease.  "F*ck me," were his well chosen words of surprise as I roared like Tarzan of the Apes.  I remember in my glee punching one of our heavy oak doors and it slammed shut as if it were made of balsa wood.  I had done what I didn't think I could and I was ecstatic with joy.  "There is no shame in being beaten by Ken Tuffs," I heard myself say as those gathered cheered my success!

Malcolm's wife was also a special friend and she was to later tell me what he said when he returned from that contest.  "Smug bastard beat me," were his words on entering his house.  There were no excuses for that was not Malc's way.  "Wouldn't give me a rematch," he added.  I never arm wrestled with Malcolm again and whenever he insisted I'd grin and ask him if he had a contract with a rematch clause? I think it was wise to quit when I was ahead, don't you?.  When I moved to Wales I did compete against a few of the stronger locals, without failure, and so I can now boast that I'm an International Champ.  I said at the start of this story that everything that has a beginning also has an end, and it's true.  I noticed in my mid fifties that my strength was decreasing but I didn't care, for I'd had my day and I'd enjoyed a long run.  I did get to beat my brother Bob at arm wrestling and, in the end, with ease for he too was getting old.  I also managed to pick up the heaviest of our old dining room chairs with just one hand, in the way only he had.  However, try as I may, I never did succeed in lifting that heavy dining room table with just my head. That record remains with Bob, the achievement of the man who inspired a skinny kid to become a strong kid, over sixty years ago.

[Ken]

This is more than just a story about the competition within a large family.  It is also about strength and guile, friendship and laughter, and even death threats to yours truly.  Don't worry, I must have survived them for I wrote this tale of what once seemed so important, Strength!