Boot camp

Some might consider it cheating. As I clamber onto the craggy side of Arthur’s Seat on an overcast afternoon, I feel less of an underhanded sneak and more of a pilgrim honouring the patron saint of underdeveloped 1980s kids, Daniel Larusso from The Karate Kid. I too seek guidance and wisdom from the Far East. Hence, I have come to meet a group of skilful warriors who will endow me with the secrets of their art form.

Their name is Hi-Kick. They hail mainly from South Korea. Their Edinburgh show features unearthly footballing skills. They alone will help me vanquish the Cobra Kai of the Fringe: the comedians’ football team.

On Sunday 19 August at 2pm on the Meadows I will lead out a rag-tag bunch of critics against these more popular and talented individuals in the annual Amnesty International Critics vs. Comedians football match.

Frankly, we’re not very good. We critics hide behind pithy sign-offs and the threat of giving one-star reviews. In reality a life behind a keyboard has withered our arms to weedy dino-size and physical co-ordination stops at being able to simultaneously hold a pint and write disparaging, self-satisfied comments in our notebooks during gigs.

In contrast, the comedians have been known to “sweep the leg” with abandon. Their captain, Mark Watson, rules with an iron fist. He insists his team call him sensei. Defeat does not exist in his dojo. They strike first, strike hard. No mercy. He commands them to “put them in a body bag.”

Fear and desperation has led me to this moment on Arthur's Seat: repeatedly heading a football against the ground with all the apparent sanity of a caged elephant, whilst holding the pose of an oversized chicken. Young children and dog walkers stop and stare. Hi-Kick’s resident strongman Ahn Jeongmo assures me this is a vital skill. This must be how young Larusso felt when presented with a car bonnet and some wax.

But I persevere. Hi-Kick should be the perfect show to help me prepare for the match. It tells the simple story of good versus evil through the medium of football. A sage-like footballer helps a bunch of no-hopers become maestros on the pitch and defeat their brutish, callous opponents. It’s like seeing Sunday’s game unfold on stage.

The show began life in Seoul, South Korea 18 months ago. San Theatre Company gathered together 12 performers from a variety of backgrounds. Former professional woman’s footballer? Check. Ballet dancer? Check. Boxer? Come on in. Taekwondo expert? Fill your boots. Two of the three girls hail from Thailand, where they played sepak takraw, a hugely entertaining mix of volleyball and football.

All are supreme athletes. What hope is there for a bald, gangly, uncoordinated journalist? Quite a bit, Hi-Kick believe. It is one of the Thai girls, Supakarnkamjorn Kasidinthorn—Maem to her friends—who coaches me through another spectacular if seemingly impractical trick.

She traps the ball mid-air in the cradle between the front of her foot and her ankle, then flicks it up, catches and balances it on her finger, then with a quick pointing action, rolls the ball along her arm. Easy. The practical application to an actual football match is unclear, but the rapid finger poke might help blind Watson and his crew, should the match get all South American derby on us.

With little spoken English but gallons of good-will, Maem teaches me the constituent parts. I quickly find out I have the most awkward arms in Christendom. When they should be relaxed and flexible, they are either like ramrods by my side or arched like some demented piece of Gothic architecture. Despite this, thanks to my coach, I start trapping the ball and getting it onto my finger. Admittedly it stays there for a millisecond before I start careering around our grassy knoll trying to balance it, like Fawlty Towers' Manuel overloaded with plates. But damn it, I did it.

Next up is the overhead kick. Choi Youngjo is my guide through the mysteries of this gravity defying, balletic move. Despite his comedy bowl haircut, Youngjo used to be a boxer, can kick twice his own height, and is the closest thing Hi-Kick has to Jackie Chan.

He throws the ball in the air and then does an explosive somersault, attacking the ball in mid-flight, before landing perfectly on the ground. The ball has soared into the back of our makeshift nets. I start to wonder how many reviews one needs to do to qualify as a critic. He might not speak English, but I’m sure Fest could publish some of Youngjo’s musings on the Scandinavian comedy scene.

Nanny, the other Thai girl, also has a go at the overhead kick. Again she completes it with astonishing grace and nimbleness.

Next up it’s me. When Peter Crouch, my kindred physical spirit, scored a spectacular goal against Chelsea last year, The Guardian memorably likened his blizzard of limbs to “a windmill falling down the stairs.” My attempts are more like a windmill imploding. There is no forward movement, no dynamism, no goal. Just 12 stone of emaciated writer hanging in the air like a sub-standard Turner Prize exhibit, arms and legs blindly searching for something, anything, in the void, before crumpling in on itself, leaving a groaning, mangled heap of bones on the ground.

Hi-Kick gasp. Youngjo runs over to make sure I’m okay. Gamely he talks me through the basic moves again. This time I nail it. I am on a roll. Giddy after that success, Hi-Kick talk me through a bevy of other tricks, from balancing the ball on my head, catching it behind my neck, rolling it around the circumference of my arms, doing a handstand and heading the ball. All of which they manage with metronomic efficiency in their stage show. I manage clumsy variations of some, others remain frustratingly far from my grip.

But, thanks to the skill and tutelage of Hi-Kick, by the end of our training session I emerge a more tricksy footballer. As Daniel Larusso discovered, you must learn to stand before you can fly. Watch out comedians, Hi-Kick has given the critics some wings.