HAVING sleep-walked to the Senate House that morning, my first real recollection of the day is of the more or less standard plate of orange frog spawn (beans on toast to the uninformed), which even in those days cost one and a half tubes.
Surprisingly unchunderous, we arrived and joined the queue for routes. Responding to cries of "Move along de edge please," we eventually arrived at an unoccupied "diff". Like frustrated psyched-out spiders, divvies were already dangling from ropes above, in their first attempts to abseil. Fighting through the grockles (who’d decided to have a day out at the zoo), and kicking aside several beer cans, our small contribution to the annual divvies outing arrived at the bottom of a crack.
"Where’s the big divvy?"
"Gone to park one in the cave"...
And so the day went on.
Boredom was well set in after about the third Mars bar, although one route in particular held an unexpected surprise. Evidence of someone else’s disapproval of this climb had been left: the experience of mantel-shelfing onto a ledge, and landing with my knee in a turd, not only persuaded me to improve my technique, but also worked up the necessary appetite for .html couple of butties. Obviously untrained in the diversified aspects of rock climbing, no-one else would follow me up that route. Having demolished the rest of my butties, it was time to scale yet .html "V. Diff."
Little divvy was climbing in shoes and was somewhat gripped after "back and footing" up a short chimney He had arrived at a large capstone at the top, and could not move an inch in any direction. Meanwhile, my bowels were trying to tell me something, and unable to curb myself any longer, I dropped a big enough hint at the bottom of the chimney to persuade "little divvy" to finish the route.
A thoroughly knackered and extremely bored 4 p.m. came around. I found myself festering at the base of a thin crack, which quickly disappeared into a prepuce of overhanging flakes. Enthusiasm for doing a route momentarily took over (although I’m ashamed to admit it), and I quickly slithered up the bed of green slime that lay in the crack. Already shattered and uttering assorted pig impressions, I continued. On reaching the overhanging flakes both holds and co-ordination seemed to have run out. The sound effects had now expanded to include an assortment of farmyard animals, not to mention a whole herd of pigs. Whilst greatly impressing the grockles at the bottom of the crag, this impression of a multi-schizophrenic Percy Edwards did very little for my jamming. By this time I was grovelling frantically for a positive hold but to no avail.
Big divvy’s facial expression as I made an attempt to jump on him, distracted me from various visions of the past. In fact I had barely emerged from my mother’s womb before I was seated on the ground, uttering assorted obscenities and attracting a large crowd of bewildered novices.
Having hit the local headlines in a big way, it was time to return home, all but two weeks late. I had just sussed out the various timber aids that are necessary to transport the average failed climber along on his arms. There was no lack of incentive, as after two weeks, the exotic delights of transporting oneself to a place that most "normals" visit every day, provided the much needed climax to end a fortnight’s bed-bound intoxication. The use of a hospital bedpan had quickly been demonstrated as unwise by the "bike-prang" in the bed next to mine. Thus to avoid soiling the sheets (that is with quantities of excrement – large), there was only one method – restraint. The outcome is the everlasting memory of being wedged firmly (by a full leg plaster) across this small room, screaming frantically to be rescued. This can only be excelled by the sheer ecstatic sensation of passed frustration, second only to a long awaited orgasm.
A.S. (died October ’72, and many times since).