Un Vrai 'Boeuf'

Back in the mists of '67, un 'boeuf sur le toit' (Ox on the roof) meant a jam session.

I was 21 in Paris and Herr Cohn-Bendit was doing his banditry with paving stones raining down on les flics.

I was terribly clever: cornered by a young policier, and fresh from Hong Kong and in my roundhouse kicking prime, I reeled out the old shoto-kan.

His mates arrived and clipped me round the ear with those tipped cloaks they wield and I was taken down the station where their own martial arts instructor gave me the good news.

Later they noticed my Brit passport (whoops!) and apologised profusely to my inert bod before tenderly delivering me to l'hôpital from where they called my landlord.

But I made and kept some pals, not all of whose balls were kicked in past the point of siring some beauties.

We had a grand reunion the other soir with all the children in top form.