The Curious Tale of Cheeky Monkey

A recent innocent Facebook post of mine sparked much intrigue and comment. It wasn’t meant to. I’d been enjoying a nice ale or two at my local pub’s beer festival and was just making observations about my surroundings.

What had generated interest was my mention of a local character who frequents the pub quite often. To me, he goes by the nickname of ‘Cheeky Monkey’. He’s probably not aware that I call him this; however it’s because of something he once said that has led to this jolly primate-based moniker.

I have to say however that it is an incongruously harmless nickname given how he got it. I shall digress, but I must warn you, it is not a tale for the faint hearted, easily offended, or those of a tender age. You must look away now. Go! Shoo! You won’t like it, please, I urge you to go and read one of my other posts.

Have they gone? Then I shall begin.

Some years ago I was having a nice evening with some friends in the same pub one Saturday evening. During the course of the evening I ventured to relieve myself in the Gents. Not unusual thus far. As a brief explanation, the Gents in this particular pub are a little unusual. They are essentially a corridor, with two doors at either end, and a bank of urinals and a couple of sinks against one wall. There is also a separate Gents with just a couple of cubicles not that far away. So, men can enter and exit the toilet from either end of this narrow room.

Upon my arrival there was one man already stood at one end of the urinals. Using the appropriate etiquette I went to the opposite end and, without any acknowledgement or conversation, I went about my business. Very shortly after I’d arrived, the door opened and a third gentleman joined us.

He too followed the appropriate etiquette and stood by the urinal in the middle. This however is where his use of these unspoken toilet rules went completely out of the window, if the toilet had a window, which this one doesn’t. It’s kind of land locked in the middle of the pub so to speak.

Our new comrade at the urinals decided he had to engage someone in conversation. From my experience, in these circumstances the instigator of random conversation with two unknown gentleman who, by the way, all have their tackles out, is usually a little the worse for wear, hence the unnecessary and flagrant breaking of the rules. I believe that this was also the case here.

Usually however the interaction is brief and of no consequence, but this chap had very different ideas.

“Have you seen the graffiti in the cubicles about Cheeky Monkey?”, he asked to no-one in particular.

I hadn’t, but in any case I assumed he was talking to the other chap so said nothing and continued to stare intently at the white porcelain tiles in front of me, however the blistering silence that followed this query made me realise that I was wrong. He was addressing the pair of us. I glanced across to my right and made brief eye contact with our new companion.

He was a short chap in his late 40s with sandy coloured hair and a playful grin on his face. I glanced away as he looked over to our colleague at the opposite end who had now ceased to urinate, a common effect of being interrupted in mid-flow that inadvertently proves man’s incapacity to multi-task, although I think this particular effect is much more instinctive and primeval, as if preparing for an attack.

Our new colleague decided to let us into his big secret.

“I’m Cheeky Monkey” he declared proudly.

Good for him, one might think, although it turned out that Cheeky Monkey had some rather unsavoury habits. I won’t quote him verbatim but, in brief, it turns out that Cheeky Monkey is happy to lend a hand to other men should relief be needed. He also seemed keen to assure us of his hygienic credentials and payment structure.

“It only costs a fiver. I’m very clean, I use Vaseline”.

By this time I too had frozen to the spot and had ceased doing what I had gone in there to do. I was now planning a swift exit by the nearest door. However, Cheeky Monkey, unabashed and amused by his little announcement had managed to continue to pee with ease and was now zipping himself up and lurching away from the urinal. To my utmost relief he headed in the opposite direction to me and was just passing behind the other chap when, apropos of nothing, he decided to embrace the poor guy from behind, emitting a cheery “Way-hey!” in the process.

It was a brief embrace but one that could have gone two ways. Another man in this circumstance might well have turned around and firmly stated their objection to this unwelcome contact by punching his lights out. However you have to consider that he had his old boy in his hand and therefore would have to generate a punch whilst ungainly flapping about downstairs, and given the sales pitch from Mr Monkey himself, some unfortunate confusion may have ensued.

In the end the guy froze to the spot and Cheeky Monkey just went on his merry way.

All that was in my mind was, ‘there but for the grace of God go I’, relieved that Cheeky Monkey had not headed my way.

Neither of us spoke for quite some time as we resumed our call of nature and washed our hands. Once we had finished we found ourselves heading in opposite directions, and as we passed we gave each other a silent knowing look that said, “What the hell just happened there?”

I went back to my table of friends and immediately spilled the beans about Cheeky Monkey. I’m not sure if the other guy did, but I do hope so.

Since then I’ve seen Cheeky Monkey many times in the pub, but we’ve never spoken. In fact I don’t think that, even if he remembers what he said, that I was one of the people who he said it to. Of course I’ve always pointed him out to other friends and told the story. Well, why not, if you’re going to declare to complete strangers what you’ll do to them for a fiver with a jar of Vaseline then you deserve to be talked about.

In retrospect I don’t believe that Cheeky Monkey was in fact the Cheeky Monkey of the graffiti fame. You wouldn’t normally shout about it if you were. I think he was just a bit giddy after a few sherbets and thought it might be funny to say that he was. At least, when I see him in the pub with his wife and kids, I sincerely hope that is the case.

However, to me, and my friends, and to probably a load of other people he and I don’t know, he will forever be Cheeky Monkey.

When you’re next in town, look out for him. No, really…..!!!!!

The End of the Line

The British are known for many traits. Our stoic reserve in a crisis, our plucky have-a-go attitude, and our ability to stand in a queue for hours. OK, so we probably have the silver medal in that latter event, coming second to Communist Russia, but since they’ve become a little more relaxed these days (which is a sidestep to gloss over my ignorance of the intricacies of Russian history and politics) we are once again contenders. The problem is, you can take things too far.

Queuing for a bus is acceptable. Queuing for tickets for a gig you’ll never get tickets to because online touts are wilfully and imaginatively abusing the system is acceptable. Queuing at the supermarket at the self-service checkout is acceptable, if sometimes confusing due to the layout. Should there be one queue or two? The norm in these circumstances is usually one of course, and heaven help the person who tries to set up a secondary queue when there’s one already in place, the stares and the tutting is horrendous.

The one place however where the traditional, stand-in-a-line queuing system should be ignored in favour of a looser arrangement is at the bar of a public house. Years and years of frequenting hostelries by us, and our fathers, and their forefathers, should have taught us this simple lesson.

A bar is long and wide, therefore we stand where there is a gap. If there’s not a gap, stand behind whoever is being served and a gap will soon emerge. There’s an unwritten etiquette about it. Yes, some people will exploit this system and so you have to be polite but assertive. I always attempt to be fair in these situations myself, I check my surroundings out and ensure that I’m not jumping in. I make eye contact with new arrivals to stamp my territory and when it’s my go I make myself known. It’s an age old custom which must be preserved.

Hence why I have become disconcerted by an alarming habit that seems to have formed at my local. There are some people, the sort who only frequent the pub on a Saturday or Sunday lunchtime, who seem to have started queuing at the bar as if they’re waiting for a bus, in a big long line. The first time I saw it I was utterly bemused and gobsmacked at the same time. There they were, about 20 or so adults queuing down through the public bar.

I didn’t know what to do so, on this occasion and despite the fact I knew it was so, so wrong, I joined this ridiculous queue. All the time I was urging us closer in my mind, hoping that no-one else would file in behind me as that meant the queue would get longer and the whole charade would persist.

That particular episode was the worst I’d seen it. More recently I found myself in the same position but the queue was half the length. I knew that I shouldn’t make the same mistake twice, especially when I could see so much unused bar space with numerous members of staff available to serve. They too seemed utterly bemused by the unnecessary line that had manifested in front of them but were also being too polite to say anything.

I decided to make a stand and I began to bypass the queue. Two men at the back of the queue saw what I was doing and felt the urge to make a comment, and I heard the use of the word “queue jumper”. I turned to them, and I could see that they, like me, were men of the world. They weren’t here to order Burgers, or Bangers & Mash , or Turkey Dinosaurs and a Fruit Shoot, they just wanted a good pint of fine foaming ale.

I asked them when they’d ever seen people queue like this in a pub before. They conceded it was unusual but used the Homer Simpson defence, “It was like it when I got here”.

“Ah”, said I, “but by standing there you’re only making the situation worse, more will come and queue behind you. It’s time to break ranks. Are you in?”

They looked at each other nervously, but after a brief moment they agreed. It was time to make a stand. So, we started to move to the vacant areas of the bar but, being British and being naturally polite, we made sure we took others with us. We weren’t here to push in; we were here to ensure that centuries of tradition were not being thrown out of the window.

Within moments normal service had been resumed. Our bold move had ensured that, finally, we were all standing at the bar waiting to be served in the normal fashion, not queuing round corners as if we were waiting at the Post Office to buy stamps. It was a truly liberating moment.

Personally I blame the identikit chain pubs for this. They’re not all the same I agree but some enforce a queuing system for ordering food with a roped area so as to shepherd the punters around for maximum efficiency. These are the kind of establishments where the entire bar staff refer to everyone, man or woman, as “guys”, but these are not pubs for intelligent free-thinking adults in need of refreshment.

Throw down your shackles and embrace the chaos. We all have to spend too much time feeling obliged to stand in an orderly line for different things, but the pub is just not the place for it.

Worse still, you don’t want your kids to pick up this weird queuing system from you. They need to know the proper pub etiquette so that when their time comes, they too will know the feeling of being stood at a busy bar, keeping an eye out for the faintest glimpse of the varnished wood serving area in front of them and squeezing their hand into the gap to make contact so as to slowly but firmly claim their place.

They need to learn from you that once they get to the bar that they should be stood, empty glass in one hand, a bank note in the other, and a look of anticipation in their eyes. They need to feel that frisson of excitement as to whether they will be served next, they need to learn the confidence to speak up when it’s their turn, and the humility and respect to let someone else be served who was there before them.

And, to badly mis-quote Rudyard Kipling, tell them that then, and only then, will they become a man (or woman), my friend.

Firestarter

When I heard that the Olympic Torch Relay was making a brief sojourn through the streets of Bourne I have to say I was surprised. This part of the country is largely ignored by the rest of the world. No-one comes to Lincolnshire for anything much in particular because, well, there’s not an awful lot here. When friends come to visit we usually take them to Stamford, which looks quite pretty and has some fine pubs, and Lincoln, which has a rare hill and a Cathedral, and two (yes, count ‘em, two) branches of Primark.

At a push there’s Skegness but a lot of my friends are from the South Coast so taking them to Skegness is like taking them to Bournemouth in 1979. It has a nostalgic look and feel but it also has the atmosphere of a place where something is likely to kick off, probably a riot between the local mods and rockers. Mind you, I did once buy a very fetching hat from Skeg, so it’s not all bad.

So, I have to say I was impressed that Bourne, one of the many quiet backwaters of this sprawling county was, for one fleeting hour or so, going to be caught up in the circus that is the London Olympics.

The present Mrs Hayward wasn’t impressed. As a long standing resident of this fine town she doesn’t see the point of going to watch some locals run through the streets carrying a flaming torch. According to her, this is something you can see in Bourne on most days, usually when word gets about that there’s a stranger in town.

Mind you, she doesn’t really see the point of the Olympics full stop so this was never going to grab her attention.

Having the Olympic Torch traversing the land has however provoked discussion amongst friends and I’ve learnt many things. Prior to the Grecian pyrotechnics arriving on these fair shores I never realised that it wasn’t a continuous relay on foot. I had imagined brave runners hot-footing it around the highways and byways day and night come rain or shine.

This doesn’t happen of course, the flame gets transferred from place to place by some sort of vehicle, a flame-mobile perhaps, until it gets to the next destination where some random celebrities and a few worthy (and some unworthy) locals jog through the town whilst holding it aloft.

One of the worthy locals running with it today is a personal trainer at my local gym. I didn’t know he was doing it until I saw him jog round the corner, wearing a gleaming white tracksuit and waving at the crowds like he was channelling the spirit of the late Jimmy Savile.

The other thing I had been unaware of was that there were so many Olympic torches. There are thousands of the things. I’d assumed there was just the one, and maybe a couple of spares in case some cack-handed fool drops it, that was passed on from person to person. I still think that should be the case. Yes, it’s nice for the people to own their torch but what would you do with it? It’s too big for the mantelpiece and far too elaborate to be lighting your barbecue with. There’s no need to have one, just a badge and a t-shirt would do as a memory of the day, surely?

The final thing I’ve learnt is that the whole torch relay thing originated at the Berlin Olympics in 1936, which was organised by the Nazi party. So, this relentless procession is something probably dreamt up by Adolf Hitler. I did wonder why ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ was running through my mind earlier. So with that and the Volkswagen Beetle, it proves that not all of Hitler’s ideas were bad. This however doesn’t really make up for the ones that were.

So, just before 9am I wandered not two minutes from my door and watched the whole circus make its way down the road, with loads of whooping and cheering from the permanently jolly organisers, determined to bring a bit of Olympics razzmatazz to a little Lincolnshire market town.

I’m glad I didn’t go into the centre of Bourne to see it, that’s where the crowds would have been and I’ll see the photos of that little extravaganza in the local paper. I savoured the curious juxtaposition of the whole thing bursting through normal streets near my house in an explosion of colour and noise, past the Auction House, the Bus Depot, and the recently demolished petrol station.

Next time I go for a run I can now say that I am running down the same road where the Olympic flame once burned brightly. Maybe next time I go for a run, probably tomorrow, I’ll take some matches and a rolled up newspaper and try to re-live the whole thing.

As a sort of coda to all this, at the end of the procession came a couple of BRM Formula One cars from the 60s and 70s, which were made in Bourne. That was the part that really made me smile, these motorised beasts unleashed on the streets of their home town, proudly revving their engines in celebration. Now that’s a proper sport. Perhaps it’s time for the Bourne Grand Prix.

I must get on to Bernie…….

Terry the Mountain Goat, Part Five - Final Thoughts

On our way back down south on the train we were all awarded with medals for completing the challenge. I didn’t feel like wearing mine as I wasn’t feeling terribly proud of my efforts.

As the journey went on though I soon snapped out of this short spell of gloom and began, with the other teams on board, to enjoy what we’d done. Some would say this coincided with the bar on the train opening for the first time but I couldn’t possibly comment.

We had an enjoyable trip back on the whole. There was a lot of laughter and it reminded me of what had been good about this. The camaraderie amongst teams had been great, the mountains had been challenging, we’d all got soaked to our skin by disgusting weather but we’d all done it together.

In the days that have followed I still feel sad that I only made it to one summit, but immensely proud that I made it to the top of what I think was the worst one, Snowdon in the pitch darkness. If you asked me whether I would do it again I might say yes, providing I can climb all three in daylight. I wouldn’t look forward to another stumble up a mountain at night and in the driving rain.

I’m pleased I walked so far on the second day given my knackered leg and the weather conditions, and I’m delighted that I got so far up Ben Nevis. I would have been more disappointed had I not tried at all.

For some reason I have it in my head that people will judge me for not doing what I set out to do, that it will confirm their suspicions that I was incapable of it in the first place, but I know deep down that these are my own insecurities coming to the fore. I almost feel guilty collecting the sponsorship money for what turned out to be one peak and two half peaks.

However I hope everybody who sponsored me will appreciate how hard it was and I challenge any doubters to have a go themselves in the same conditions.

Anyway, enough of this wallowing in self-pity, regular readers of my blog know that this isn’t me at all. If you’ve read each one of these little missives from the mountains then thank you. They’ve sounded quite serious but it’s hard to capture everything from the trip and throw in my usual flippant remarks. Well OK, I’ve squeezed a few in.

So, it’s time for Terry’s final thoughts should you fancy having a go at this next year……

·      Firstly, ensure you get on with the team around you. I’ve concentrated so much on my own personal battles with these mountains that I haven’t said too much about Neil, Adam and Alan. What I can say is they were a great bunch of lads and we had such a laugh on the train. Those memories will stick with me.

·      Make sure you have plenty of dry clothes on the train. I really can’t stress enough how good it felt to get out of those dripping wet clothes and into something dry.

·      Also, take a towel. Anyone who’s read The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy will of course be aware of this advice already.

·      Take a headtorch with a bright light, the brighter the better, if you’re climbing a mountain at night.

·      Don’t look down.

·      Don’t look up.

·      Make sure you use plenty of insect repellent on Ben Nevis or, like me, you will still be scratching those midge bites for days afterwards.

·      Always accept whisky from a stranger from Derby. It’ll warm you up and your football club is probably doing better than his.

·      Don’t be modest. If you have to get stark bollock naked in front of a carriage full of strangers (including women) then so be it. It’s better than sitting in wet clothes and getting hypothermia.

·      Maybe don’t do the above when you’ve stopped at a station. Commuters tend to stare.

·      Don’t try to climb a mountain dressed as Scooby Doo, or any other cartoon character for that matter.

·      Don’t expect to get a bacon butty at the top of Ben Nevis.

I think that’s all.

NEXT TIME: Normal service will be resumed.

Terry the Mountain Goat, Part Four - Ben Nevis

On that second night I decided the floor wasn’t for me, it had been too cold down there the night before, and so I tried to sleep in my seat. This led to a fitful night of constant fidgeting to make myself comfortable and, before I knew it, we were being woken some time around 4am as we approached Fort William.

Looking out of the window there was at least one respite, it wasn’t raining. There was even some hopeful breaks in the cloud and you could sense the mood in the carriage brighten after the monsoon conditions of the past two days.

The night had given me a chance to re-evaluate things a little. Before I’d undertaken the challenge I hadn’t considered for a second that I wouldn’t be able to reach the summit of the three peaks. Now, with a bit of experience, and knowing that my leg hadn’t had the time to recover fully, I realised that it was irrelevant. It was a challenge, and that’s the point. If you don’t make it to the summit then, in some ways, so what? It’s always the goal, but isn’t the real challenge to have a go?

I had therefore decided that despite everything I just had to attempt Ben Nevis. The problem was, how do I break this to the rest of the team? In all likelihood I would be just as slow and ponderous as the day before. I decided that I had to have a plan.

I put it to the rest of the team that I come along with them but that they should go on ahead. The path up Ben Nevis is obvious, so we were told, and so I’d just go along at my own pace and give them the chance to get to the top. This wasn’t entirely the selfless gesture that it sounded. I found it hard to keep looking up the mountain to see that they’d stopped and were staring down at me, their eyes willing me to go faster. I felt that, on my own and at my own pace, it would be an easier task.

I have to stress that this is absolutely not the way that the organisers of the event would want teams to behave. Their role is to ensure we get up each mountain safely and put everything in place to ensure that we don’t end up on our own. At Snowdon and Scafell Pike I would agree with this, but Ben Nevis is a slightly different kettle of fish, at least for most of the way.

The rest of the team agreed to this and we prepared ourselves to get off the train at Fort William, donning clothes and boots that weren’t entirely dry.

Fort William is a small Scottish town surrounded by hills and, of course, Ben Nevis itself. It sits on the banks of Loch Linnhe and the centre seems to be dominated by a branch of Morrisons.

As we stood at the doors to the coach I surveyed the town and said “It’s really quiet here isn’t it?”

It was, there were no cars or people to be seen.

“That’s probably because it’s 5am” said Neil. 

“Oh yeah”.

The concept of time had been lost to me altogether since embarking upon this mission. 5am, 9pm, midday, who knew anymore?

We took the short journey to the base of Ben Nevis, went through the checkpoint, and up we went again. I sent the team on their way and I started quite sprightly, staying close behind them for quite some time. Soon though, we were back to the steps and loose rocks of the previous mountains, and that annoying pain in my leg decided to remind me that it was still there which meant that I began to drop back.

Unlike the previous day however I was fairly relaxed about it. I let other teams pass and I kept going. It wasn’t too bad just yet so I was keen to see how far I could get. As far as I was concerned nothing was going to stop me from trying to get to the top of this mountain.

After quite some time I saw Neil coming back down the mountain. He informed me that he’d heard via the radio that other teams were getting a bit of a bollocking for waylaying team members and suggested we stick together until the next checkpoint.

“How far away is that?” I asked.

“About an hour’s climb” he replied.

He may as well have said that it was on the moon. I carried on with Neil in front but progress was agonisingly slow. Before long however I spied Adam and Alan up ahead.

I realised that us sticking together when I was so slow wasn’t realistic, but I wasn’t ready to give up. Between us we hatched a plan. They would radio to say that I was going back down, but I wouldn’t. I would keep going and report into the next checkpoint when I got there and say that I’d decided to keep going.

Again I have to say that this was entirely the wrong thing to do but we had a clearly defined track ahead of us and conditions were good. Also, and this is the real crux of it, you have to define your own strategies for coping in life and for me I knew I would make steady progress on my own rather than constantly having to try and chase down my own team.

They moved on and I followed behind, but before long they were out of sight again. I kept going and even stopped to take a few photos for the first time on this trip. I chatted to other people and was relieved to see other people having as much difficulty as I.

My leg was sort of holding out and the clear visibility and dry path was making things considerably easier than the day before.

Eventually I found myself on a steep rocky path that seemed to ascend for as far as the eye could see. It was on this section that an elderly Scottish man appeared alongside me and asked how I was. I told him that I was having a bit of trouble and that my team had gone on ahead. He stuck with me and kept me motivated for quite some time.

He was an old hand at this mountain and knew that this was a tricky part, but explained that it evened out up ahead. He tried to point out where this would happen but I couldn’t really see where he was pointing to.

We talked about the weather and he gazed at the sky mystically and said “There’ll be rain before 9.30”.

I looked around at the comparatively clear skies and couldn’t see what had prompted this forecast of precipitation but he said it with such a tone of wisdom that I didn’t dare doubt him.

We stayed together for about half an hour but the steep ascent was, by now, playing havoc with my leg. I got to the point where I was stopping in pain after every two steps up and, at this pace, I had no chance of seeing the summit within the timescale.

After numerous attempts to try to ignore the pain and crack on with the climb, all observed passively and with great patience by my new companion, I finally stopped as I realised that I could go no further.

Unlike the day before I didn’t feel devastated. I felt quite calm acknowledging that I’d tried as hard as my body would allow. My companion agreed that going down now would probably be a good idea and told me not to worry, I’d already climbed over half way. He radioed back to base to tell them I was on my way, and they acknowledged that they knew about me already. Thankfully no further questions were asked.

We bade farewell and he headed upwards in a sprightly manner for a man in his 70s as I limped slowly back down.

I don’t know whether it was the change of weather or the fact that it was my decision but my spirits were high. I looked out at the valleys below, where houses were tiny dots and signs of life indistinct, and felt quite pleased that at least I’d tried, and was confident that if I’d not slipped on Snowdon that I could have made it. I decided that one day I would be back and this mountain would be mine.

By the time I was heading down it was approaching 9am and more and more teams, not part of our group, were busily ascending the mountain. There was quite a mix of people, some were proper mountain walkers all fully equipped and ready for whatever the mountain was going to throw at them, and some were in charity t-shirts looking as if they were out for a morning stroll.

For one moment I thought that the lack of sleep and painkillers had caused a hallucination as I could see a pack of Scooby Doos heading up the mountain towards me. Thankfully it was just a group of people in fancy dress.

I thought back to the past two mountains, and what I knew was ahead of them and wished them luck. At the end of the day, Ben Nevis is still a mountain, and there are numerous fatalities every year. Mind you, tumbling off a mountain dressed as Scooby Doo is as good a way to go as any other I suppose and may posthumously win you a Darwin Award, so at least you’ll be remembered.

Fellow climbers on their way up assumed I had been to the summit and were keen to ask me what it was like. Initially I told them the truth, that I hadn’t made it, but after a while I decided to amuse myself and starting telling people about how lovely and sunny it was up there, and how the café was open and serving breakfasts. Not one person appeared to doubt me and one group in particular were already planning what they were going to eat as they went on their way. It may sound a little cruel but I’m blaming the painkillers again.

I had a slow and painful trek back down but I eventually reached the first checkpoint at the base of the mountain. I was driven back into town with another chap who, when I’d got there had been suffering a bit and was wrapped in a foil blanket. We were dropped off at Fort William’s premier social spot, that branch of Morrisons, and went for a pot of tea.

It was whilst I was there that I started to feel a bit disconsolate. I didn’t feel happy about my achievement, just a bit sad that I hadn’t done as well as I’d hoped. It had genuinely been the hardest physical thing I’ve ever done. I firmly believe that I was fit enough to do it had I only stayed on my feet on that first mountain.

The sadness turned to amusement as we left the supermarket to head back to the railway station to catch up with the train. We had to climb a short bank to leave the car park and due to my leg I made quite a meal of it. It was one of those laugh or cry moments, I was in a lot of pain trying to climb something no higher than a metre which was massively ironic given what I’d just been doing for the past few days. I decided therefore to laugh.

Shortly after we got to the station the teams arrived to join us. I was glad to see my team back and triumphant, although it was mixed with regret that I couldn’t have enjoyed it with them.

I was flicking through my phone and could see that on Facebook some friends were looking for updates on my progress. I didn’t know what to say. Should I post that I feel like an abject failure because of my leg? Do I mention the hideous conditions on Scafell Pike?

I chose not to go into these details and posted a fairly light response explaining how we’d made it up and down each mountain. It wasn’t a lie as such as we had, just in my case not quite as far up as I’d intended.

It was there and then that I decided I would just have to go into the gory details via my blog, and here we are.

TOMORROW: THE FINAL CHAPTER (What do you mean, at last?)