You know, watching Thomas doodle yet another Spider-Man in his notebook while he completely ignored the math homework, we all kind of started to realise that the only one guaranteed a comfortable future in our family was the cat. No joke, wed tried a queue of tutors maths, English, even a history one but all it did was push Thomas deeper into his little world of cartoons, chocolate éclairs, and philosophy. Hed already decided that life was just a load of fuss about nothing, and true happiness was loafing around with snacks and iPad in hand.
When my hands had just about hit my ankles from despair, I spotted this wild ad online: Weightlifting gear for sale, can teach your child to love school and sport. My own top-secret method. Maths, history, English, literature as well as biceps, triceps, legs, shoulders, chestAlan, private coach.
The usual parental caution just went out the window at that point. I called the number and after a couple of rings, this gravelly, out-of-breath voice came on, with the background clanging of heavy weights.
Hello? he said, just as the metal thudded.
Hi, Im calling about the ad, I managed.
Barbells sold, Alan grunted and actually sounded like he was about to hang up.
No, wait! I actually need a tutor for my son. Maths, English, that kind of thing.
How old, how heavy, what can he do? He barely wasted a syllable. The clanging stopped, replaced by the swish of a skipping rope. I actually thought I could smell sweat through the phone.
Hes nine, weighs around three stone nine, just started doing column addition, and
How many push-ups? interrupted Alan.
Im sorry? I genuinely thought Id misheard.
Push-ups. And pull-ups. Whats the count?
No idea Five, maybe? At a push? I said, floundering.
Does he know his prefixes from his suffixes?
Oh, er, Id have to check with my wife
What equipmentve you got at home? Compass? Protractor? Resistance bands? Kettlebells?
Umm a wooden ruler? I said, feeling a bit daft.
Fine. Send your address. Ill be round within the hour, Alan said, then yelled away from the phone, Wider stance! Keep that back straight!not you, Im in the middle of a history session. And with that he hung up.
I stood there stock still, back weirdly straight, before I went to tell Thomas hed be meeting his new tutor shortly. As you can imagine, Thomas barely lifted an eyebrow just jacked up the TV and requested tea and a bacon sandwich. Education, in any form, was met only with supreme indifference.
Half an hour later the doorbell rang. My wife peeped through the spyhole and her jaw dropped towering outside was Alan, like a walking mountain in a vest, smelling faintly of coconut shampoo.
Afternoon, he said, ducking into the hallway. So, wheres our young Olympic hopeful?
I heard my wife mumble, I think its the bloke from up the road with the odd glasses, who left a note on the Vauxhall saying hed fix your eyesight
A voice called from the living room, Sorry, bit of a mix up, I used to be an optometrist in another life. Im Alan Turner, currently a tutor.
Oh! Alan! Sorry, we didnt recognise you. Can I help you with your bag? I asked.
Alan handed over what looked like a kit bag for a hockey team, and as soon as I tried to lift it, it pretty much floored me. The cat, whod been lurking nearby, performed the mother of all sprints across the house and behind a locked door.
Blimey, whatve you got in here? I gasped as I dragged it toward Thomass room.
Educational materials. Primary level, plus some extras, he replied casually.
Thomas was, as usual, completely fused to the sofa staring at his mobile. That is, until the door was flung open and Alan strode in, giving barely a glance at his new pupil and instead eyeing the room.
Got a drill? he asked me.
A drill? Why?
Need it for English, Alan replied, pulling a pull-up bar, a punch bag, and a skipping rope from his kit bag.
Ill ask the neighbour about the drill, I said, embarrassed as I left Alan and Thomas alone. Thomas, this is Mr. Turner, your new tutor. Mr. Turner, Thomas.
So how come youve got all those muscles? Thomas blurted out, instead of nice to meet you.
Practised my column addition, Alan deadpanned, stacking weight plates.
Right, Ill leave you to it, chaps, I said, backing out.
Are you stronger than Spider-Man? Thomas asked, eyes wide.
Does Spider-Man bench press 200 kilos, then? Alan replied.
Thomas had no clue, but he could tell the answer was probably no.
Look, I dont like lessons, he tried, folding his arms.
Lessons are for losers. Well do crunches, Alan said, hitting the floor and starting an ab routine.
Thomas just watched, expecting this nutter to tire out. He didnt. He only picked up the pace, moved onto dumbbells, then resistance band, topping it off with a round of press-ups.
Remember all that? You want to be strong, or just hang about with your mutant pal Spider-Man in a dusty web all your days?
Thomas shook his head.
Right then. Three sets of forty-five minus thirty-nine reps for each exercise starting with crunches.
How many is that? Thomas stammered.
Im waiting for your answer.
No drill, but I found a hand-held electric screwdriver, I called as I burst in, then stopped dead at the sight of Thomas, actually doing press-ups. Right, Ill just leave you to it, I whispered, backing out. And quietly shut the door.
***
Next day, 5:30am blaring doorbell. I staggered to the door croaking curses under my breath, but Alans shiny bald head filled the doorway, and I realised there werent enough bad words in the world to fill a melon that size. Somehow, he looked bigger than before even his under-eye bags had muscles.
Weve got history and geography this morning. Trainers, vest, shorts. Were off on a long run, with a spot of local history and landscape analysis thrown in, he announced.
Hes only in Year 4, Alan. He doesnt have all those subjects yet! I said, rubbing my eyes.
Poetrys in the curriculum, too. Fancy coming along? he asked.
I went to school. Im good, thanks.
What year was the Norman army finally driven from this county? Alan snapped.
Uhm its nearly time to get Thomas up I mumbled as I legged it to Thomass room.
Back I came, whispering, Hes not waking up.
Get his kit on, hell wake up on the way, Alan said, cheerful as ever.
***
So, three times a week, Alan would show up. Monday: chest-triceps-shoulders-math-English. Wednesday: back-biceps-literature-history. Friday: legs-geography-science. Three weeks later, Thomas strolled into the kitchen sans shirt, and I instinctively tucked my own beer belly behind the kettle. The lad looked almost chiselled, stood like a soldier, and even started guilt-tripping us about being couch potatoes.
James, Im not so sure about all this, my wife muttered at dinner one night. Guess what Thomas asked for on his birthday?
Yeah, Xbox, hes mentioned it.
No. Swedish wall bars and a blender for smoothies. I dont think Alan is even a proper tutor. Hes just one of those sport-mad types wholl wear our boy out.
Weird, Ive seen them do some maths though.
Really? Youve seen a textbook in his hands?
Er Ive seen a calorie chart, does that count?
There you go. You know what they say, muscle-heads arent exactly academic
Well, would you rather he was a brawny dunce or a weedy swot? I replied.
Id rather have a normal child! I want these lessons to stop.
At that moment, the phone rang. She glanced at the screen, Its his form teacher.
She answered, Hello? Whats he done now? Yep. Ill be there soon.
Whats going on?
Thomas has started a fight. See?! I told you this wasnt good.
Im coming with you.
***
We hopped into a taxi to school and were summoned straight to the heads office.
There you go a tutor, and now our sons being called in front of the head, my wife sighed.
The office was packed parents, kids, school psychologist, form teacher, total mayhem; I reckon the racket couldve de-tuned the piano in the music room.
This isnt a gym! Its a school! thundered another mum at me.
Can someone tell me what actually happened? I asked over the din.
Finally, the form teacher got control. Thomas was making the other boys play ladder games at break and keep score using long division.
He was what?
Taking turns on the pull-up bar, increasing reps. By requirement. With, um a threat.
They started it! Thomas protested, They picked on me for correcting their grammar when they called me names.
How did you correct them? we asked.
I explained the correct declension of numpty and show-off. They went for me, so I defended myself. Alan Turner says, Channel your energy into pull-ups, not punch-ups, and teach them fractions instead of fighting.
He said if we tried to hassle him again, he’d make us do square roots! moaned one of the other boys.
That brute should be banned from this school! screeched a mum.
Hold on, I finally piped up. So, there was no real fight?
The supposed victims all shook their heads.
So my son answered their bullying with maths and a pull-up bar?
Plus made them run round the playing field and learn Wordsworth! someone complained.
Saw? I whispered to my wife, And you worried hed turn into a meathead.
She actually nodded approvingly.
Id like to apologise, the headteacher announced. No, not to you lot, she clarified to the other parents, to these parents. Your sons done brilliantly, but in light of what Ive just discovered, well have to move him up.
Typical! Serve those muscle-bound weirdos right! grumbled the others.
No, hes being moved into Year 5. Hes obviously ahead of the game, the head confirmed.
There was a stunned hush. You could almost hear the envy and pride scraping through the room as everyone made a beeline for the door.
Outside, I rang Alan: Hi, Mr. Turner. So, bit of a development Thomas is being moved to Year 5. More subjects coming up.
***
A week later, Thomas was in Year 5 and two weeks after that, off to his first junior crossfit competition, and prepping furiously for the childrens literature olympiad. Then, one day, I got a call from the parent of one of the ex-classmatesthe lot whod been involved in the whole sagaasking for Alans number.
Soon enough, Alan had practically his own kids group, where you werent dropped for poor sports performance, but for dropping grades in your schoolwork.
Honestly, Id never have thought a tutor who couldve bench-pressed my Vauxhall would turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to us.
