Writing about the hot weather last week reminded me of the seaside holidays I took with my dad. I don’t know why my mother never came. I think it was something to do with her not liking sand (or me).

Butlin’s was my dad’s resort of choice, not Bognor or Minehead, where there was a remote possibility of warm weather, but Filey where you could see polar bears jumping across the ice floes in the North Sea.

On arrival my dad always sent me to the open-air swimming pool while he sorted out the chalet. It didn’t matter what the weather was like rain, hail or shine I slipped on my ‘cossie’ and sprinted down to the pool.

There was always a Redcoat teaching kids how to dive in which was a very crafty ploy, had they allowed us to wade in we would have known the only thing preventing the water turning to ice was the salt content.

My dad was determined to take full advantage of all the activities and entered himself in the knobbly knees competition (which was quite funny when I was about seven but extremely embarrassing later).

Known to his workmates as ‘Have-a-go-Joe’ my dad volunteered for everything; unfortunately his abundant enthusiasm was visited on me with disastrous consequences.

I recall sitting in the King’s Hall watching wrestling when they announced an impromptu kids boxing tournament during the interval.

The contestants were organised into age groups which was fine except for one 12-year old boy the size of a grizzly bear.

“Who wants to take on this lad?” yelled the MC to total silence.

I was enjoying watching the other kids squirm until my right arm was suddenly thrust into the air as my dad shouted: “He will”.

The crowd erupted as I was hoisted into the ring, skinny as a lath and weighing less than Grizzly’s arm.

“It’s not me you need,” I yelled above the din. “I can’t box for toffee.”

“These will protect your hands, lad,” said the MC strapping gloves to my puny wrists.

“Do they stem bleeding?” I yelled as he dragged me into the centre of the ring.

“Three one-minute rounds, no low punches, break when I tell you shake hands, now box.”

I was sprinting for the ropes when a giant fist smashed into my ribcage crumpling me into the canvas like a rag doll.

Through gasps I could hear Grizzly growling like a rabid dog. As the ref counted: “One, two, three…” forget 10, I wasn’t getting up until 30 or 40.

My dad was always volunteering me for stuff I didn’t want to do like donkey derbies where half the kids fell off or talent competitions involving choirboys and precocious little girls in tutus.

The only thing I ever won was a roller skating event.

I was brilliant on skates having spent my entire childhood clamped to a cheap set of wheels that flew off whenever I went around a corner too fast.

Some of my very best holidays were spent with my dad. If only he’d been a little less enthusiastic, I might have escaped the emotional scars.

By our columnist Vic Barlow