Fist Of Destiny – Memoirs of a Martial Artist

by
Karl Lancaster

Fist Of Destiny – Memoirs of a Martial Artist – II was born (no surprise there then) on 13th November 1955 and, after some argument, named Karl Lancaster. My father wanted me to be called Charles, but my mother had other ideas, so they settled on Karl which is the Germanic equivalent anyway.

Things did not go right from the off as my name was to be spelled with a ‘c’, the Scandinavian spelling, but the registrar mucked it up.

My father was John Patrick Lancaster. He hated the Patrick bit, his mother had been born in Ireland near Cork, but as he hated the Irish, he would never accept that she was truly a Celt. If you ever wanted to cause an argument, you had only to bring up his Celtic ancestry and he was off!

As the name Lancaster implies the family was English and probably originally from Lancashire, although no one could remember back that far.

Apparently, according to my father, the more recent ancestors of the Lancaster family had been Fishermen, and it was a family tradition to take a Scandinavian bride. However, as I allude to in my foreword, we often make assumption or even down right fiction fact. And I could find no record of fisherman or Danish brides when researching my family tree. Only that my great great grandfather (I think) was described as a ‘gentleman’, which, in those days was rare.

According to my father, my great grandmother spoke with an obvious Danish accent her whole life. And it was no doubt the Scandinavian blood (if it existed) that contributed to my father’s looks. On holiday he was always mistaken for German, a fact that peed him off his entire life.

My grandfather Richard was born in Woolwich London in 1905. Hence the now family tradition of being an Arsenal supporter. Granddad Richard also decided to become a police officer. At six feet two inches and probably about 15 or 16 stone he was a big guy (although the smallest of all his brothers) and ideally suited to being an old-time copper. He was by all accounts a total bastard and not someone to mess with.

Apparently one of his past times was to start a fight in a pub, let it escalate into a small riot and then call in the cavalry and nick the lot of them. He also used to carry a pistol. It’s from Granddads time at least that the family have a tradition of fighting and of being handy with a gun.

Unfortunately, I never met my grandfather or grandmother, or indeed step grandmother as they all died by fifty. My grandfather dying the year I was born.

My father was one of three, the other two being girls. Like his father he grew up to be a powerfully build man and stood well over six feet tall. He didn’t have such a good start in life, his mother died when he was young, and his dad remarried. Apparently, his step mum was quite well to do, and he loved her, but she also died young.

Dad was not a well child. He spent several years in hospital with childhood asthma. But at fourteen he became the second youngest recruit to join the Royal Navy. He spent ten years in the Navy, mostly as a submariner. During that time, he boxed for the navy, shot for the navy (he was a marksman with at least three confirmed kills) and played water polo for the navy. He also learned unarmed combat and more importantly, how to fight.

One thing my dad wasn’t shy of was a fight. All through his life he was happy to accommodate. Even at nearly fifty he was able to knock a guy down with one punch.

In contrast to my dad who was big, blonde and blue eyed, my mother was short, dark and brown eyed. She was also shrewd, hardworking and had a very bad temper! She once chased one of her sisters around with a red-hot poker. And on another occasion, I watched her bury a fork in my father’s hand. They got on like ‘Ali’ and ‘Fraser’ and some of the fights were just as good but did nothing for me as an only child in a constantly warring family.

If my father’s heritage was colorful it paled in contrast to my mother’s family. Latin, Celtic, French and Jewish were the predominant contributors to the blood line.

My maternal great-grandfather fought in the first world war as part of a cavalry unit. He was shot and gassed and eventually died of his wounds. My great-grandmother also died young. But that was my mother’s family.

My mother’s father’s family boasted an endearing great grandfather who was virtually illiterate who was dominated by a self-centered would-be actress wife. Both lived well into their eighties.

Both my mother’s parents had a great influence on my life as I virtually lived with them until I was about eleven years old. My grandfather was domineering and quick tempered, but a typical bully who backed down when a more able man was about, funny but he never got on with my father.

He was far more fond of animals than he was people and bred dogs, birds and fish. He was also a very selfish man. But he did have good points like taking me for long walks to museums and parks on a Saturday morning when my dad was working or in the pub, and my mum was out with her sisters and my grandmother down Oxford Street.

The other good point was he enjoyed wrestling and every Saturday afternoon we would sit there and watch the likes of Kendo Nagasaki and Big Daddy pretend to hurt each other. Although totally bogus, but a lot more technical than the modern-day American wrestling, it did give me some insight in to ‘fighting systems’ at an early age.

I’m sure it was due to my childish interest in wrestling that my father one day decided to teach me boxing. In his eyes boxing was the combat art for a man, although he was vaguely aware of more complete systems of combat like judo and karate but had no direct dealings with them other than through the minimal unarmed combat training he got in the Navy.

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Regards, Coyalita

Behavioral Health Rehabilitative Specialist & Drug and Alcohol Addiction Counselor

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