Hugh Reilly: Solution to growing obesity is child’s play

My four local shops have a rather cosmopolitan feel to them – one is a Chinese takeaway and another is an Indian carry-out emporium. The availability of cheap, high-calorie food outlets helps explain the herds of over-nourished teenagers who waddle the pavements or impatiently wait for a bus to transport them three stops up the hill to stand intimidatingly on a street corner of preference.

However, poor eating habits only form one part of the unhealthy lifestyle equation. It is rare for me to see kids playing outdoors, even on sunny days. Parents are disinclined to let their children out of sight for too long, fearful of road accidents and, sadly, falling victim to the paedophile hysteria that grips and debilitates our society. Further, helicopter mums and dads, acting in concert with schools and youth clubs, prevent youngsters from participating in risk-taking activities.

Thank goodness that Glasgow City Council is doing something about this dreadful state of affairs. Playing for Real is an initiative which aims to make active play a daily part of a child’s life. Parents and schools are being targeted to give kids the opportunity to enjoy high-octane pastimes that involve running, jumping and the possibility of landing in the A&E department should the thrilling adventure go somewhat awry.

This back to the future approach to childhood has my utmost support. Just reading the press release had me misty-eyed and nostalgic for my days as an inbetweener. Back then, health and safety had yet to be invented, hence the backcourt game of “knifey” thrived. This was a two-player contest whereby each individual stood with their legs apart, some three yards or so from his rival. Not a game for wimps, the object was to throw a small blade into the earth between an opponent’s lower limbs. After each throw, the players had to move their legs closer together, a manoeuvre that greatly increased the chances of the shank sticking in flesh. There was an element of audience participation; a bloodthirsty mob that made the crowd at Rome’s Coliseum seem like a Quakers’ convention encouraged both players not to be the first to chicken out and thereby lose the match. I retired from knifey after my first and only bout on a technical knockout when my unco-ordinated adversary’s throw resulted in the knife protruding from my upper ankle, a somewhat pocket-knife Pyrrhic victory.

It is only recently that I have rediscovered my love of cycling, the memory of my horrific day out with the Metcalf twins finally put to bed. Four years older than me, these athletic 16-year-olds coaxed me into pedalling all the way to Saltcoats on a Coventry Eagle bike with no gears. After completing around 40 of the 50 or so miles of the round trip, I was suicidal but, given the lack of traffic in those days, I found great difficulty in finding a car to throw myself under.

One activity I excelled at was climbing trees, a better ascender of all things arboreal than even wee Mick whose simian features lent credence to the view that a make-up artist would be somewhat superfluous if he were ever to win a starring role in Planet of the Apes. Unfortunately, descending safely from the tops of trees was not my forte. More often than not, I’d end up stuck on a branch, ashen-faced, my legs trembling uncontrollably, much to the amusement of my peers on terra firma. I have to say that their penchant for lobbing stones at me didn’t help the situation.

To this day, I am still a reasonable sprinter, a legacy I believe of playing a game whereby boys would chase after girls, who if caught, had to kiss their capturer. I didn’t experience much success – lassies who had previously run stroboscopically slow when pursued by other lads inexplicably showed a tremendous burst of pace whenever they turned and saw me in pursuit. Truth be told, I had to resort to being a lion in the long grass, waiting to hunt down an unsuspecting girl.

Play up and play the game, I say.