Terry the Mountain Goat, Part One - Run to the Hills

As I sat on a tightly packed coach, with my rucksack sat on my lap and gripping on to my borrowed walking poles, I looked out of the window at the rolling Welsh countryside and wondered how I’d got involved in all this in the first place.

It was, as I recalled, a simple exchange with a work colleague who, knowing I’d just completed a fun run, suggested I might like another challenge. How about climbing the Three Peaks of Snowdon, Scafell Pike, and Ben Nevis, over the course of a couple of days? The sensible part of my brain was shouted down by the more reckless part who was bellowing “How hard can it be?” in my ears.

As the coach weaved its way past little stone houses I looked on in envy at those occupants who hadn’t closed their curtains, who were bringing their evening to a close and were, most likely, looking forward to their bed. I, on the other hand, was about to climb my first mountain, in the dark.

Only six hours before I’d been standing on Platform 16 of Euston station, along with around 43 other teams all spending the next few hours living on a specially chartered train, watching the Rock Choir sing us off, much to the bemusement of the normal commuters arriving from Manchester and Milton Keynes.

I’d met my team, some of whom for the first time. Neil I knew from work, but Adam and Alan were unknown quantities.

Neil is a sensible type of guy and he was plainly going to be the Akela of the group. He had all the kit and could map read. He gave us a map-reading lesson on the journey up but I could tell that it wasn’t sinking in with any of us.

Adam looked the part with his bushy beard and Bear Grylls kit but in reality was a laid back guy with a very dry sense of humour. Alan on the other hand was louder and more brash, the kind of guy you don’t miss when you’re down the pub. A proper Marmite kind of guy, you either get him or you don’t and he wouldn’t give a damn either way. 

Fortunately we all clicked fairly quickly, probably because we knew that we were all going through this ordeal together. We shared a similar sense of humour and this was the thing that was going to get us through the next two days.

So as we arrived at the Pen Y Pas car park at the base of Snowdon there was a palpable sense of anticipation in the air. There was also quite a lot of rain sharing that space and so, with hoods and hats on, we left the coach, attached our head torches and, and made our way past the check point to the winding path up the mountain, hoping that we’d be back soon.

TOMORROW: MOUNT SNOWDON BY NIGHT

24 Hours from Snowdon

So, both my rucksacks (one for the mountain, one for all the rest of my kit) are packed and waiting for me. There's no going back now, the mountains await. In just 24 hours time I'll be stepping off the train in Bangor and, along with the rest of the team, be taken to the foot of Snowdon and sent forth to the peak under the cover of darkness.

Well I say darkness, we have head torches to light our way. I like the head torch, it makes me feel like I'm a robot.

Once Snowdon is accomplished we are taken to within a two hour trek of Scafell Pike the next morning, and then Ben Nevis in the wee small hours of Saturday morning, and be expected to conquer these as well. It's relentless.

I've probably overpacked whilst at the same time forgotten something vital. I do have wet weather gear and, given the forecast, I'm going to need it. We're expecting rain, and lots of it. Oh, and high winds, there's going to be a fair bit of that. Oh, and thunderstorms. 

So if I don't get hypothermia or pneumonia, or be blown off the mountain by a hurricane, I'll probably be struck by lightning whilst drinking from the metal water bottle the present Mrs Hayward bought me for Christmas. Maybe this is why she was so keen on me taking out some insurance for this event.

Weirdly though I'm kind of looking forward to it. I'm going to get soaked, my feet will ache and by Saturday I'll probably smell a bit musty and my hair will be stuck to my head but at least I can look forward to returning to my own comfortable, warm bed in the early hours of Sunday morning.

As you may know I'm putting myself through this to support The Railway Children, and they in turn support homeless children who won't be going home to a warm bed tonight or any other night. 

I know there's always someone waving the tin around for a few quid but I think this is a very worthy charity. Just think back to your own childhood, or think of your own kids, or kids you know, and think about what it would have been like for you or for them to be living on the streets. 

Think about the fact that there are kids, perhaps the same age, sleeping rough somewhere tonight. Then think about my aching, bleeding, blister-ridden feet come Saturday and click on the link below, or drop me a text or an email, and donate some money to a worthy cause.

The Railway Children will be grateful for whatever you can spare, and so will I.

Thank you :-)

Please visit our fundraising site here: http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/team/noblewarriors 

Friday I'm In Love

Ever since I left school I was certain of one thing; I would never go back for any kind of school reunion. It wasn’t that I had any particular problem with the place or any of my fellow pupils or teachers; I just didn’t see the point in it.

This self-induced attitude had therefore made me suspicious of reunions of any sort. So when, on Facebook, a group started up, loosely based upon a nightclub in Southampton I used to go to around 1993-1994, the first nightclub I regularly went to in fact, I initially viewed it as a mild curiosity. I could glance through my phone to see that there were photos and posts from people whose names and faces were flickering around in the deeper recesses of my memory and I smiled to myself as I remembered these images from another age.

So I remained a casual and fairly impassive observer of these posts for a while, and wasn’t at all tempted when I saw a reunion was being planned. I figured that it was all such a long time ago and besides, no-one will remember me so it’d all be terribly embarrassing.

However what I did have were some photos of my own to contribute. So I spent an afternoon going through boxes and unearthing the flattering and not-so-flattering faded images of friends of yore, and friends of now from back then when they had more hair and less girth (I include myself in that description).

The nightclub I speak of wasn’t actually a nightclub at all. It was just a night in a room above a pub on a Friday called The Attic but it was, to all intents and purposes for us, our very own goth club. The pub below was a gay bar, which was almost a perfect venue as neither party were bothered by the other and it was always pretty clear which part of the establishment you were from when you went to the toilet.

To those who have not dabbled in goth, of which there are many I’m sure, I have to stress that goths are no more scary or weird a group of people than any other. No-one is drinking blood, nobody has the power to turn into a bat and no-one is sacrificing virgins on a stone plinth. Well, not every night.

I agree that the black hair and pale faces have a slightly creepy edge and not one I went for myself, mostly because black hair didn’t suit my ruddy complexion. I experimented one afternoon and it just looked so appalling that I resorted to red and other colours that have now left me with a somewhat auburn hue. Also, applying make-up wasn’t my strong area so I didn’t do it but I’ll tell you something, any man that paints his face in ghostly white make-up, dons a frock coat, a cape and winkle pickers and walks through a city centre on a Friday night has, in my view, absolute balls of steel and I take my hat off to you, past and present.

Goths are just joined together by their common interests in the music and the literature and the…..ahhh, who am I kidding? Yes, maybe that’s the genesis of it and I haven’t done any research on it but, on the whole, there was just something about the boys and girls and men and women who were goths, or who, like me, flirted around the scene, that I quite liked.

It was a small but busy club and after a while you realised you probably knew everyone in the room, and that was a comfortable feeling. When you went to a pub in town you would often witness a fight, but at The Attic on a Friday night there was no such risk. Yes, I wasn’t alone in getting a bit giddy on snakebite and black and accidentally falling down the stairs, or bumping into the DJ area (which was in effect a table suspended down from the ceiling by chains) but no harm was done.

The Attic unwillingly closed its doors at the end of 1994 so we all dispersed elsewhere, but the vibe of the place has clearly stuck with a number of people for many years, myself included, and I suspect we’ve never found anywhere else quite like it.

So time has gone on and more and more people have joined the group on Facebook, added photos and videos (some of which I was in, much to my surprise – I don’t remember anyone having a camera!!), and joined in the many conversations. People who, whilst I hadn’t totally forgotten them, I’d certainly not thought about for a long time. It’s a weird thing but slowly the memories have manifested into the carefree feeling of the time, the camaraderie, the anticipation of a Friday night. Bear in mind, I was young and going out in Southampton still felt relatively new to me back then.

Everyone has their own place they remain fond of but for me The Attic was the first place I danced, drank, laughed, loved and occasionally fell over (damn the heels on those pointy boots I bought in Salisbury). I remember the many nights when we all crowded on the postage stamp sized dance floor and wheeled around backwards to The Sisters of Mercy or Siouxsie and the Banshees. I remember the way we used to change the words to the songs so that the opening of The Marionettes’ song ‘Like Christabel’ was changed from “She keeps her thoughts in a forest dark” to “She keeps her tits in a thermos flask”. Oh how we laughed.

I remember the night the fire brigade turned up because a nearby resident had not been aware of the injudicious use of the smoke machine and believed that the great clouds of smoke billowing out of the upper windows on a warm summer evening to be a full blown inferno. The burly men with the hose were not impressed.

I remember being sat mournfully outside one evening after being dumped by a girl I’d only known for a few weeks when I was approached by a goth called Robbie who imparted me with some sage advice, “It’s probably her time of the month, mate. Get it sorted!”. Even at the tender age of 19 I knew that these were wise words even if I didn’t, on this occasion, get it sorted. It did, however, cheer me up no end.

And of course I will always remember the night that Ned was upended into a large metal wheelie bin and bundled through the door to the backyard of the pub, only to discover there was a drop of several feet on the other side. Oh well, he lived to tell the tale.

So now I find myself in a strange place because all these memories have come racing back to me like an explosion of sight (mostly black), sounds (mostly ‘She Sells Sanctuary’ by The Cult) and smells (mostly patchouli oil and K Cider).

Each day more and more names and faces from my past are going to the reunion and, actually, I would really like to join them. Yes, it’s not the early 1990s anymore, but these people were friends. We’ve all changed of course, all older, some with kids, some in different parts of the country, but all with a shared memory of a little nightclub down Northam Road.

The sad thing is I’m going to miss out on this night of memories. Not for a bad reason of course, I’ve got a date with three mountains, all for a good cause, but when I’m heading from Scafell Pike to Ben Nevis next Friday night, tending to the inevitable blisters from my walking boots, I’ll be remembering when the blisters came from, yes, those damned pointy boots again.

So, if you’re at the King Alfred pub in Southampton that night, spare a thought for me and my aching feet, but above all have a fantastic night and party like it’s, well, 1994 I suppose.

Every Breath You Take

You know, it all started as a bit of banter and now I think it’s got a little bit out of hand. I shall explain.

There are these guys down my local gym. They’re two of the individuals I referred to in my previous post. They seem to live in the weights area as I rarely see them anywhere else, and their hard work shows. Their upper body muscles are impressive. They obviously put in a lot of work and are now very good at, well, lifting things.

Their overall physique is, however, questionable as both are a little portly around the midriff. Not that I can really cast any stones in that area. I sympathise wholeheartedly with this curse of the middle aged man.

They also boast a large and colourful collection of ink on their body but one, let’s call him Jeff (I don’t know his real name, I hope for the sake of anonymity he’s not called Jeff), also sports an interesting haircut.

I liken it to a toilet brush as it kind of sits on the top of his head and sticks up. It’s like he went to the barbers, asked for a very close crop all over, not even a grade one, perhaps a grade quarter if there is such a thing, but it went wrong when the clippers broke before the barber could get to the top of his head so Jeff just left the tufts of hair on top, so that it now resembles an amusing looking hat.

Fair play to Jeff, it’s a bold haircut but it doesn’t suit him, or anyone for that matter. What this distinctive barnet has done though is make him recognisable.

So when I mentioned to friends about Jeff and his mate (let’s call him Arthur) one of them realised she had seen him when she was on the school run. She noted how she had been drawn towards his unusual look and had made some bad eye contact. Jeff however didn’t seem to mind at being stared at, and I pointed out that he probably just thought she was admiring his mighty biceps.

Jeff and Arthur are the ones who make the most noise when exercising as they lift almighty weights that they can barely manage. When they are in the building everyone knows about it. So, just for a wheeze, I decided to record Jeff & Arthur’s cacophonous grunting on my phone, just to illustrate my point to friends when they came up in conversation in the future.

I’d really like to share it with you but it would probably be highly illegal to do so. Just ask me and I’ll play it to you some time.

So, that was that, until yesterday, when my friend sent me an email. She and her husband had come to an astonishing discovery – Jeff was one of their neighbours. So as to prove it they had taken a covert photo of him from an upstairs window.

Again, it would probably be highly illegal to post that photo here so I’ve recreated it for you…….

I realised at this point that, to my horror, I think we are now both officially stalking Jeff. Hopefully he is blissfully unaware of this as, should he find out, he could probably rearrange my face into a more unconventional pattern. Mind you I think I have a good chance of out-running him, unless he’s actually The Terminator.

So, in the style of Simon Mayo’s Confessions, I apologise to Jeff & Arthur, but more so to Jeff.

Due to my idle chit chat he now has a growing legion of stalkers. He’s being stared at by mums taking their kids to school, he can’t have a session at the gym without some freak hovering nearby with a microphone, and now he can’t even have a relaxing sit down in his own garden without seeing, out of the corner of his eye, the glint of a paparazzi’s camera lens from behind a hedge.

I hope he can forgive me but above all I hope he doesn’t, by some weird quirk of fate, stumble upon this blog as the consequences may well be a little painful.

Sorry Jeff.

Weighty Matters

Has it really been so long? Well, yes it has. I needed to take a break, collect my thoughts, and re-group. Not so much writer’s block as I’ve continued to write about all sorts of things, but most have been just too crazy or too personal to blog about.

My recent musings have been more of a cathartic thing for me which one day I’ll re-visit and transform into a seminal piece of literature about the complexities of the human condition. Or, more likely, after I’ve expelled my final breath, someone will find my journal of weirdness, sift through it, tut loudly at the mixed metaphors and unnecessary exposition, and chuck it into the recycling where it will be transformed into rough toilet paper for use by inmates of Her Majesty’s prisons.

Back in the real world I have just a couple of short weeks until I found myself facing three immensely large mountains in the space of a day and a bit. This would be OK in itself if it wasn’t for the fact that I have to wend my way to the top of them and, presumably, back down again.

I’m not built for hills. I lived on a hill when I spent a year in Sheffield and it wasn’t very long before I got fed up with dragging my carcass up it every day, especially when there was a handy bus service to my door. Mind you, the bus used to struggle as well. It was a very steep hill.

I have, in all fairness, been in training. No, I haven’t actually climbed a mountain to practice as my view on this is that it won’t make the challenge any easier. I’m just happy to climb the three mountains and then never do anything quite so daft ever again. Well, unless I get the taste for the mountain life. Perhaps I’ll build a wooden hut and become a goat herder, who knows?

So, in an attempt to ensure I don’t end up on the side of Snowdon, five minutes into the ascent, screaming “No, leave me, I don’t want to hold you back, let me die here, tell Emma I love her, etc…” I have become a regular at my local gym where a sturdy looking chap called Ed put together a training regime designed to ensure I am fit enough for the task in hand, or that I’ll injure myself so badly that I’ll never walk again, it’s pretty rigorous.  

I even have to spend time in the weights area with the top heavy looking chaps who grunt a lot. Some even shout words of encouragement at each other such as “Do you wanna get fit??”, and I even saw two young fellows high five each other, without any hint of irony, after they’d tackled a particularly challenging weight. I promise you I’m not making any of this up.

Personally, I tend to keep myself to myself and I don’t follow the required etiquette as I usually scoot around the weights area and get on with various exercises with no pause to admire myself or anybody else in the big mirror. Therefore I can be done and dusted on the more modest weights while the regular muscle heads try to noisily lift a humungous weight just the once.

So I think it’s done some good and I’m now in a better place to attempt these mountains than I was a few months ago but the prospect is still causing me some concern, mostly the lack of sleep I will experience and, well, the whole ‘uphill’ bit.

Some would say I went into this without thinking about it but not me, oh no.

Yes, I know I’m rattling the tin again but if you’d like to sponsor me then please do so here. The money goes to a good cause as you’ll see when you click on the link. It doesn’t go to me so I can invest in blister plasters and Deep Heat, I promise. 

The Truth Is Out There

I wrote recently about what I would do if I owned a time machine. However I now feel that I've been beaten to it as, in the past week, I have seen two individuals who were, without any shadow of a doubt, time travellers.

Time Traveller number one was an old chap at Peterborough railway station. He was wandering along Platform 3 in an old-fashioned style de-mob suit, a trilby hat, and a slightly ragged handkerchief flapping in the breeze from his breast pocket. He carried with him an old battered brown suitcase and was wearily trudging along, albeit with some degree of purpose, and with a steely determination in his eyes.

It wasn't clear where he’d come from. There were no trains that had recently departed the platform and it was apparent that he was heading off to either another platform or out of the station altogether.

He appeared to be a Time Traveller from the past, whipped up in some disruptive time disturbance and plonked down in 2012.

Time Traveller number two was a young chap in an ill-fitting suit (all time travellers are very smartly dressed it would seem). He was boarding a bus but was looking very confused by his surroundings. On his suit he had a sticker with the word ‘visitor’ emblazoned upon it. This, I have to add, was all taking place in the middle of the countryside so it wasn't obvious where he had visited.

The only conclusion that can be drawn is that time travellers distinguish themselves with a visitors badge. It stands to reason. Why wouldn't they?

You may think I'm going loopy, and who am I to argue, but when all is said and done the facts speak for themselves. We are being visited by time travellers, therefore ruling out all known theories that have emerged from the brains of such luminaries as Albert Einstein, Stephen Hawking, or David Icke.

Younger readers might like to look the last one up. Sports reporter turned son of God turned conspiracy theorist who thinks the Royal Family are a bunch of shape-shifting lizards. Quite a career. I met him once when he opened a fete on the Isle of Wight although this was before he donned the turquoise tracksuit of divinity, but I digress.

The only thing is that the time travellers obviously cannot control their time machines as they keep showing up in random places at completely inauspicious moments.

This is probably for the best otherwise time travelling tourists would be everywhere.

For example you'd never be able to get a ticket for a concert and you’d really struggle to get one for the forthcoming Olympics.

Hold on… People are struggling to get tickets for the Olympics… This can only mean one thing… Conspiracy!