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Best known around the world for his martial skills as chief instructor for Kissaki-Kai Karate-Do and director of Law Enforcement Training Servicers Int., Vince is also an accomplished musician (piano & guitar) and vocalist.
Now you can read his first exciting novel-
"Tear-time"
Click on the link "Read Chapters" and you will be able
to read excerpts from this roller-coaster of a novel.
Click on the link to: "Contact" to leave your comments and also guess who some of the charcters are based upon - (Hint -some are based upon the different actors Vince has worked with as an actor in various TV shows and series...
My Gallery
About me
Vince Morris BA(Hons.) 8th Dan Kissaki-Kai (8th Dan I.S.O.K.)
Now a US Citizen, Vince attended Grammar School but was 'asked to leave' when he was 15 and ran away to London to join a Rock & Roll band.
He is an accomplished Rock and Blues Pianist - Vocalist and you can see a short video on Youtube.
He has taught English at 2 Universities, his main area being Anglo-Saxon and Norse Studies.
Vince has also established a Residential Home for the Elderly, a fine art valuation and actioneers and a Video company.
In between other activities, Vince appeared in a number of TV series.
He is widely published in magazines, books and videos - "Tear-Time" is his first novel.
Now in his sixties, with more than 50 years Martial Arts experience, Vince Morris is a leading authority in the world of karate and his effective no-nonsense approach to his art has earned him worldwide respect. He regularly taught Tactical Officer Protection courses at the Antwerp Police Academy and for a variety of other Law Enforcement agencies which has brought him many commendations and citations for his extraordinary skills along with the acknowledgement that these skills have saved lives!
Always concerned with making the art of karate as effective as he knew it could be, Vince developed Kissaki-Kai Karate, and by utilising his knowledge of pressure points and the Rules of Combat has seen it develop into a well-rounded system of personal protection.
Vince Morris has influenced many of todays leading instructors both directly and indirectly via his teaching and numerous books and videos on applied karate. Kissaki-Kai has branch Dojo all over the world, in Europe, China and the USA.
Now based in America at the Kissaki-Kai Honbu Dojo, Vince continues to oversee the development of Kissaki-Kai Karate-Do International.
Chairman & Chief Instructor: Kissaki-Kai Karate-Do
Chairman International Society for Okinawa and Japanese Karate.
Senior Coach English Karate Governing Body.
Director: Law Enforcement Training Services International.
Member ILEETA (Int. Law Enforcement Trainers and Educators Assn.
Consultant Instructor to various Law Enforcement Services world-wide - Law Enforcement Tactics & Officer Protection
Twice awarded Police Academy Citations for "Professionalism and amazing skills."
Recognised authority on close-range combat tactics and the use of vital points.
Acknowledged as one of the worlds foremost instructors and lecturers in the field of Police Officer Tactics and safety, and of karate and allied combat arts.
Called by Ex-White House Security Advisor: "The Master who teaches the Professionals."
Former Director: International Institute for Kyusho-Jutsu Research.
Former Chairman of the Martial Arts Commission, a UK Government (Home Office) instigated body to oversee the standards and practice of all martial arts in England, reporting to the Sports Council and the Minister for Sport.
For many years a senior student of Shiro Asano SKI 9th Dan
SKI International and medalist in both kumite and kata, consistent member of the Asano senseis SKI (GB) British championship winning team.
Respected and recognised worldwide; coach to British Team at JKA World Championships - Dubai.
Experienced Judo-ka.
Designated by the US Govt. as possessing "Exceptional Skills and Talents."
Author of 12 books published world-wide, plus a series of instructional videos & DVDs
Regular National Magazine columnist in the UK and the USA.
In 2005 invited on to the board of technical advisors for Martial Arts Teachers.
Rank Awards
2007 Awarded 8th Dan Black Belt by International Society of Okinawan/Japanese Karate
2007 Awarded title of "Meijin" by International Martial Arts Symposium in recognition of..."Lifetime of dedication and leadership to the Martial Arts community and as a model of noble character..."
2008 Awarded 8th Dan by awards panel of Kissaki-Kai Karate-Do.
Vince and Wife Eva.
They met 10 years ago and wed under an oak tree in their garden June 2010
Contact
Please feel free to add some feedback to reading the chapters or book.
You can purchase the book online at: www.kissakikarate.com/shop.htm
or on Amazon.com
Email Vince at:
vincemorris_kissaki-kai.com
Read excerpts from chapters 3 & 24
Sets the background for the dirty and deadly war of atrocities which set father against son, brother against brother, and nation nagainst nation...
Collins had already noted the name of the bombastic English officer who, in a towering rage, had forced the captured rebels to be paraded along O'Connell Street between two long lines of jeering soldiers to the Rotunda Hospital, and who had then proceeded to beat them.
This same officer who, later, in a gin-heightened red-faced apoplexy, had ordered that one of the leaders - frail bespectacled old Tom Clarke - be strip-searched mother naked in the street, in front of everyone, not fifty yards from his little tobacconist's shop on the corner of Parnell Street where so much of the planning for the ill-fated uprising had taken place.
That first night of the surrender had been spent out in the open by the Rotunda. It had been cold and damp, and no food nor drink was given to any of the prisoners, nor were they issued blankets or any kind of protection. To heap indignities upon the rebels even lavatories were denied them. All bodily functions had to be carried out where they stood, in the open, men and women, huddled together.
That shameful night was by the order of the same English officer, now much the worse for drink; and oh yes, the 'Big Fellow' had his name, and Captain Lee Wilson's fatal appointment in a peaceful lane in County Wexford was already made and noted down, even if he himself did not yet know it!
The same citizens who had originally gathered outside the liberated Post Office building to jeer and mock the rebels were soon to react to the barbarity of the torments which they saw inflicted on their fellow countryme; and pouring the dregs of humanity wearing British uniforms into Dublin was to be no answer; that would only serve to exacerbate the tension and the loathing of these, now confirmed, Irish patriots for their foreign overlords.
Michael, like his fellow-prisoner, mentor and namesake Michael Collins, was one of the lucky ones, not deemed important enough to be selected along with the other leaders: old Tom Clarke, the oratorical dreamer of a schoolteacher Patrick Pearse, the mysterious Sean MacDermott, the stereotypical Irish would-be poet Thomas MacDonagh and his fellow scribbler Joe Plunkett.
These never made it to the boat, but were stood up in front of an English firing squad and shot to death. First to have the tiny targets of scrap paper pinned to their breasts were Clarke, MacDonagh and Pearse, with Plunkett following barely a day later.
The stout little Scottish-born socialist leader of the rag-bag Citizens Army, James Connelly, even though now wasted, sick and badly wounded in the ankle by a ricocheting sniper's bullet and heavily sedated with morphine, was also shown no mercy. Unable even to sit upright in his sick bed, he was manhandled into clean pyjamas and, eight days after the first of his colleagues to face the firing squads, was brought in the dead of night by ambulance from the Castle to Kilmainham Jail.
Then, in the grey, early light of dawn, the sick, semi-conscious man was tied to a chair to prevent him from falling over, blindfolded and then shot to death; being finished off in the usual manner with a pistol bullet in the head.
Guiness-black, the laughter and shrieks punctuate the bass rumble of the comedian's thick brogue......"Had some bad luck with the first wife.....She died of poison!.....Second died of a broken neck!......She wouldnt drink the poison!"
Hunter grinned, in spite of himself, shaking his head at the female shrieks that rose in appreciation, paradoxically applauding the joke against themselves. Gently he drifted away, staring again with unfocussed gaze into yesterday. Was there really no answer?
Detached now, he knew such calm acceptance was not always possible. Sometimes he felt as though the tumult and intensity of his thoughts would split his skull wide open! Such happiness..........such sorrow! Such loving warmth..........such grieving cold! To and fro...to and fro....like a gigantic emotional pendulum. Was there some purpose? Any purpose? He heard again his mother's soft voice, felt his father's strong back as on hands and knees he supported Jim and his brother both together in stumbling, bucking bronco rides across the living room carpet. The same living room carpet that soaked up his lifes blood as..."NO!" Hunter caught his tumbling mind before it fell irrevocably into that slough of despair.
Jean's face swam up to the surface of his drink. Young and smiling. Seventeen. He should have known, expected the pendulums downstroke. Marriage to a woman and marriage to the army, both at the same time was bigamy. Both were escapes of a kind, an attempt to regain what once was taken for granted, security, love, family...
But, as his ties with his squad grew, so those with his wife weakened; and with the increase of special work, there was even less to talk about with Jean when bodily appetites were sated and silences began. So many barriers, growing, growing, until eventually he could hardly see his wife over them.
SAS Intelligence-gathering in the Bandit country of Armagh shifted his concerns from choosing curtains to watching backs. The Falklands from washing dishes to frantically clawing frozen mud from the writhing victim of an Argentinean anti-personnel mine. His dash carrying his bleeding burden with its missing leg to the waiting helicopter had been captured by the TV cameras and seen throughout the world, but his wife had never known that it was him. Not even that he was there!
The urgencies of day-to-day survival pushed Jean further and further into the background. Therell be time to make it up later. Much later (much too late) he realised that this was just not true. The pendulum had swung again. A sudden gale of laughter broke Hunter's introspection; the comedian took his final bow and left and the continent of faces broke up once again into little island groups as the serious task of drinking re-assumed its temporarily abandoned importance. Across the public bar, on the periphery of his vision, two large figures were making their way from table to table, thrusting collecting jars into the midst of the little knots of drinkers. Hunter watched, but didn't comprehend, but he could feel the tangible coldness preceding them like an invisible wave.
He looked away, lost in memories once more. A hand nudged his arm. Hunter looked up as a harsh Irish accent assailed his ears. "For the Boys." A coin-filled jar appeared under his nose. "You'll be wanting to make a contribution!" The large figure bent over the table, leaning a meaty hand on Hunters shoulder. He placed the jar with flourish in front of his nearly empty glass.
Cold ice drenched Hunter's brain, as his senses focused on the man. He could see quite clearly the large open pores in his fleshy nose, the small ginger tufts of nostril hair matching those sprouting from his ears. His concentration centred on his enemy.
This IRA thug, whose collections might have paid for the very bomb that tore apart his wife!
Time slowed as Hunter reflexively evaluated the task ahead. Large, broad-shoulders, big strong hands. Not someone to wrestle with. Weak points? Eyes? No! Throat? Testicles? Smiling disarmingly up at the looming figure, he reached into his pocket for loose change. He paused momentarily, his right hand poised over the jar, then released a cascade of coins.
As the big man's eyes followed the falling money, Hunter reached up and driving his body from his chair he seized the ginger hair with both hands. Using all of his body-weight, he smashed the collector's face down onto the jar, driving the rim completely through the flesh above the top lip and breaking every one of his top front teeth, and probably the bridge of his nose! Hauling the bloody head upright again, Hunter stiffened the ridge of his right hand between the thumb and forefinger edge, and drove it with all of his power into the exposed throat.
The big man dropped, as if pole-axed, his initial scream stuck in his mangled trachea. He rolled between the chairs, eyes bulging, clawing desperately at his throat, bubbles of pink froth welling from his broken-toothed ruin of a mouth.
His companion, momentarily frozen in shock, galvanized into motion, hurling himself towards Hunter, knocking aside tables and glasses as he came.
Invincible in the icy fury of a terrible anger, Hunter stepped to meet him, driving the ball of his right foot deep into his stomach, doubling him over. As his head came down, Hunters left knee came up to meet it, with a sickening crack, driving it back up again. As his opponent arched backwards from the force of the blow, Hunter swept both legs from under him, dropping him to floor like a felled tree in thunderous crashing of splintered table and broken glass...
© Vince Morris 2010 All Rights Reserved
