Brian Turner was lonely. It was as simple as that. A middle-aged man who had lived with his mother until she died of a broken heart – triggered, heartbreakingly, by the death of her beloved budgie following a long illness. Brian, her only son, simply wasn’t dynamic enough to fill the void. He had always struggled to communicate. Years earlier, his blind father had died in a house fire. Brian had never quite managed to tell him the house was burning.
His mother had never expressed disappointment in him, mainly because there had been very little to be disappointed about. He had done little of note. Their conversations came in small, awkward bursts when Brian felt confident enough to speak. These moments became fewer and farther between. He’d quit his office job ten years before her passing after his boss asked him to give a short speech about effective communication. The idea haunted him for weeks – until he eventually resigned. (It should be noted: there were only three people in the office, Brian included.) He exchanged pleasantries with his colleagues, but that was as far as it went. He was amiable but friendless. Occasionally, he shared tea over the fence with neighbours – but otherwise, he kept to himself.
After his mother’s death, everything changed, though not immediately, for the better. He fell into deeper isolation and depression. If he’d barely faced the world before, he now shut it out entirely. His only contact with humanity came via the occasional door-to-door salesman. Oddly enough, this became his lifeline. One afternoon, mid-Bakewell tart, he had an epiphany: he needed to reconnect with society. Join the salesmen, he thought. They had access to people. That would be his way back into human interaction. Online, he found a local job as a door-to-door salesman selling classes for Mixed Martial Arts, at the local hall. He had never thrown a punch in his life, but it was an opportunity. A strange, terrifying opportunity – but one he was determined to take. Within a week, leaflets and instructions arrived in the post. He was told what to say and encouraged to read up on different martial arts styles. Brian even practised a few moves in the mirror. He now knew, at least, the meaning of the different coloured belts.
With a booking sheet in hand and sandwiches packed, he climbed into his car and drove a few miles to a friendly-looking suburban neighbourhood. Nerves fluttered. He was not used to speaking with strangers. But today, he would overcome his anxieties. Jumping out and adjusting his jacket, Brian walked up the drive of No. 1 Bishops Avenue, nodding politely at the black cat sprawled across the path. He’d resolved not to read from the generic script but instead to be himself. Boldly, he knocked and took a step back, spotting a shadow behind the frosted glass.
The door opened to reveal a smartly dressed woman in her mid-seventies, leaning gently on a walking stick.
“Sorry to bother you!” Brian chirped.
“Can I help you?” she replied cautiously.
“Oh thank you, tea would be lovely,” he said, and stepped straight into the doorway.
“What a beautiful house you have,” Brian continued, striding into the kitchen.
The woman, stunned but not threatened, followed him. Brian was smaller than her in stature.
“Um… what is it you wanted?” she asked.
“Black tea would be lovely, one sugar. Same as my mum – she passed recently. Had the same her whole life. By the way, your garden is exquisite. Do many birds nest there? Is that your cat outside?”
This was the first conversation Brian had enjoyed outside his home since his mother died. He felt giddy.
“I’m so sorry, my name is Brian.”
Still in shock, the woman explained she was late for an appointment and had to leave.
“I won’t keep you long. Would you be interested in mixed martial arts? Great for health and wellbeing.” He barely paused. “I have a few moves I could show you. The classes are local. You could be a black belt.”
“I have a stick. I can barely walk, let alone roll on the floor with you.”
Regaining her composure, she asked Brian to leave. No tea would be made.
“But I wouldn’t impose without bringing cake. I could teach you high kicks. In fact, let me schedule you in…”
“Out. Now. Before I call the police.”
Brian blinked. He wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong. “Can I bring flowers to thank you for your hospitality? I’m free anytime for a chat. I could bring a belt.”
The door opened wide, and Brian stumbled out, still complimenting her lawn as he left.
Not deterred, he crossed to No. 2 Bishops Avenue. Outside, a removal van was being unloaded. Two burly men were manoeuvring a wardrobe through the doorway.
“Sorry to bother you, but I’m selling martial arts classes,” Brian announced.
A booming voice shot back: “Do I look like I want to be fucking Bruce Lee? I’m struggling to get this bloody thing through the door! Does he have the answer?”
Brian perked up. “Well, yes. It also gives you flexibility and muscle control.”
The removal men nearly fell inside as the wardrobe finally budged through. One collapsed onto the furniture, catching his breath.
“Martial arts are a great form of self-defence,” Brian added, raising his fists in a mock stance.
“I’m going to shove this wardrobe where the sun don’t shine in a minute.”
Seeing his pitch going nowhere, Brian scuttled around to the back door, where he encountered the new homeowners—a young couple with a crying baby.
“Sorry to bother you. I’m Brian. Wanted to talk about street fighting. Reasonably priced. Perfect for your baby—start young.”
The mother, trying to soothe her infant, answered politely. “Life’s busy. I have lots of appointments.”
Brian beamed. “Maybe weekly classes. Or I could come round and show you moves over dinner. Free any evening. Next Thursday at 7?”
The mother, now alarmed, retreated into the kitchen. Brian followed, removed his jacket, and began unpacking boxes.
The husband, who had so far ignored Brian, turned. “What are you doing? I don’t even know who you are.”
“Oh don’t worry. I’m coming for dinner next Thursday. Show you how to punch. We’ll bond.”
Brian pushed past the removal men again, nearly crushing them between the wardrobe and the wall.
“Hope you can join us,” he called back. “Let’s make it a party. Get your suit ready!”
A wardrobe handle rolled out the front gate after him.
Onwards he marched, confident. His social diary was filling up. At the end of the street, he spotted the postman.
“Sorry to bother you. Glorious day, isn’t it?”
“Morning. Can’t stop. Very busy,” came the quick reply.
“I won’t keep you. Do you know any residents that might want martial arts?”
“No. Don’t know anyone. Must dash.”
“I wanted to be a postman once – but I’m scared of dogs.”
“Me too. Gotta run.”
“Can I help with deliveries? I’ll be at most houses anyway. I could walk with you.”
“No. Need to go fast. Time is money.”
“I won the 100m dash at primary school. I can keep up.”
The postman vanished through a side gate. Moments later, he was spotted leaping a garden wall.
His next stop was the home of an elderly man pruning his roses. Brian waved cheerfully as he approached.
“Sorry to bother you. Good to see someone who cares about their garden.”
“It’s our pride and joy,” the man replied as his wife stepped out of the doorway.
Brian sat on a bench nearby. “Would you be interested in martial arts lessons? Great for the back. Helps with pruning. You could even karate kick the bushes. Perfect lawn for throwing the missus over your shoulder.”
“No use to us at our age. And besides, she still puts up a good fight. Still scares me,” the old man laughed, calling to his wife. “We’ve got to head to the supermarket for dinner.” Then, turning to Brian, he added, “Sorry, fella. Better luck next time.”
But Brian was not easily put off. He helped gather the gardening tools and even followed the man to the shed to put them away. As the man went inside to let the dog out, Brian took a seat on the bench and watched the dog play, despite not being fond of dogs.
The elderly couple, now perplexed, watched through the kitchen window as Brian remained seated, chatting happily with the dog for over an hour. Eventually, the man quietly headed for the gate, avoiding eye contact, and began calling the dog.
His wife appeared moments later with shopping bags in hand. “Ready to go?” she asked.
Brian sprang to life. “Did you know if I’d learned martial arts at school, I could’ve taken down the bullies?”
“Eight children, fourteen grandchildren and five great-grandchildren no bullies in my family” the man replied flatly.
Brian was intrigued. As the man opened his car door, Brian jumped in beside him.
Too polite to object, the man asked, “Do you want a lift somewhere?”
“You’ve got so much to tell me about your family. I’ll come shopping with you.”
During the journey, Brian peppered them with questions, eventually steering the conversation back to his mother’s deceased budgie. At the supermarket, he insisted on pushing the trolley and offering advice on what to buy. He darted off to get milk and biscuits, and the moment he was out of sight, the couple abandoned the trolley and bolted to their car. Returning to find them gone, Brian assumed they had forgotten something. He asked the staff if he could set up a martial arts stall. They declined.
It was late afternoon. Brian was exhausted but still had one more stop. It was in his contract to make tea-time visits.
He knocked on a door. Loud heavy metal music blared inside.
“Sorry to bother you. Interested in martial arts?”
“What? Marshall who?” came the reply.
Feeling emboldened, Brian attempted a scissor kick. He landed in a heap. Groaning, he stood and composed himself.
“Are you okay, fella? What do you want?”
“I used to play guitar.”
“You’ve been to Qatar? So what?”
“I could be in your band.”
“Why do you need a rubber band?”
The noise was deafening.
“I could pop by this weekend. Let’s make music together.”
The man slammed the door, leaving Brian humming to himself. He had new bandmates now. Heading home he felt a sense of pride and belonging.
The next day, Brian ventured into a new neighbourhood. After a short walk, he stumbled across a church service and wandered in, taking a seat.
The vicar began. “Let us take a look at the great book from God. Thou must not murder…”
Brian stood and strode up to the altar. “Sorry to bother you, but if we could all defend ourselves, no one would get murdered.” He struck a karate pose. “Classes start next week. Jesus was an expert in karate. Kicked out traders from the synagogue.”
He ducked behind the font, shadow-boxed through the pews, and sang “Amazing Grace” as he shimmied to the door. “See you all Sunday!”
The congregation prayed for Brian.
Outside, he noticed people heading into a church hall. A sign read: “Alcoholics Anonymous Meeting.”
Brian slipped inside and took a seat in the circle. Listening intently, he felt at one with them. When it was his turn, he stood.
“Anyone want to learn how to attack each other to fight addiction?” He reached for a young man’s arm and was immediately flung across the room.
Dazed but undeterred, he stood again. “My name is Brian. I would like to become an alcoholic like you. We are one.”
He paused for effect. “Let’s all meet at the Dog and Duck. Saturday. 7 p.m.”
As he left it dawned on Brian that in two days he had transformed his life making friends everywhere. Brian felt fulfilled. He hadn’t made a single booking, but was very happy indeed. He was thriving. His social calendar was full. And thanks to martial arts, he would never be lonely again.
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