The Biggest Fail

So there I was, perhaps the coolest dad in the world, ever, shopping in Pick and Pay with my almost 14 year daughter (and I have warned you all, I have a big shotgun). Not only was I the world's coolest dad, but this was the world's coolest Pick and Pay, because instead of Christmas muzak, rad tunes were pounding  from the speakers (OK, perhaps they were not actually pounding).

A familiar tune came on. "Ah" said Mirella, "Eminem".

"That's not Eminem" I spluttered at full volume, as Love the Way You Lie got to the chorus, "it's B.O.B."

Oh Jeez. Suddenly I had lost all my cool points in just 5 foolish words (if I count B.O.B as one word).

We covered the remaining aisles, when Mirella, who hadn't stopped laughing, realised she needed Coke (with a capital C, registered trademark etc. Not any other kind).

We couldn't find cold Coke on the shelves anywhere. "Yes" she said. "They only have cold Coke at the koisk."

That wasn't a typo. She had just called it "The Koisk".Then she spelled it out. "K.I. O.S. K". Which doesn't frickin' spell "koisk", does it!

I laughed so much I wept.

"What did you just say? The Koisk?"

"You thought Eminem was B.O.B!"

"Koisk?? Koisk! That's the biggest fail ever!"

"But you thoug..."

"KOISK!"

Yep. That's just got to be the biggest fail. Ever.

Unpacking the trumpet

Let’s suppose I get up my route. Let's suppose I break my vow of silence, switch metaphors, and blow out a loud and gloriously self-indulgent trumpet solo...

...which segues into one of several different scenarios.

Here's one. Steve Bradshaw Jnr and Matt Bush arrive to do the second ascent. Steve looks like a latter-day Adonis. Matt, in skinny jeans, muscles, tan and funny hat with little tassles, is harder to describe (Roger, you read this blog, and that’s your cue...). Suffice it to say that... They crush the 2nd and 3rd ascents and I spend my remaining days in the retirement home morosely picking bits of egg off my face.

I should never have unpacked the trumpet.

So instead let's imagine, as the last note of my solo rings out in a sustained vibrato (can that be done on a trumpet?), a bunch of bellowing bullocks are psyching up at the base of the route ready to send damuddafukka. The air in the gully is redolent with a heady mix of testosterone, chalk and the rancid reek of sweaty climbing shoes. One by one the Young Turks (bullocks, Turks - they all look the same to me) step up and one by one They. Are. Shut. Down.

I sit on a secluded ledge and smirk as their comments float up on the aforementioned aerosol of testosterone. To wit: “Fuck, I’ve got to eat more fruit”, “That old man can still crush” and “Steve Bradshaw Snr.; The Original and Best”.

I turn and walk down the valley, pausing briefly to whisper, unheard by the bros:

“That’s not hard, bitches”.

Shape and form



The 80s were the best decade

Think about it for a minute. After the post-war asuterity of the late 40s and early 50s there was the explosion of freedom and fun of the 60s. What a time thave been in your 20s.

I am not sure that the 70s really stood a chance of following that, and after bell bottoms and huge sideburns had clearly failed, it was time for the 80s to step up to the plate.

And step up they did.

They gave us Milli Vanilli. Michael Jackson was still a black dude. We had Wham. Queen rocked us. I was in my 20s.And climbers got lycra.

Was this the face that launched a 1000 ships? Nope. But it made me start climbing in lycra. Steve Lewis on 7th Toad. Thanks to whoever has copyright on this photo!

That's not hard, bitches

There is a story behind the title to this post that I think is going to be told by my great friend Roger, and he will do it well. So instead of telling it myself, or writing a long post on all the great people I met, things I laughed at, routes I crushed, routes that crushed me, I am going to distill this to the essence.

I went to Oudtshoorn to hook up with my buddy of 25 years, and try to play a role, if I could, in his getting up a route he bolted as project, but never tried, many years ago. And after we had done most of the laughing, chatting, smack talking and some preparatory climbing, Roger gave it a go on Thursday. I was belaying and as he set off I wanted to tell everyone to stop what they were doing and watch, because here was a living legend still putting himself on the line and giving it horns. The guy who gave us Stormwatch almost 20 years ago still punching out dynos on hard routes.

Of course everyone was watching anyway, and urging him on, desperate for him to get it. He didn't, but what the hell; I got the privilege of belaying, we came up with Plan C to get in one more burn (which will involve us leaving a carbon footprint about the size of Asia) and if that doesn't work out Plan B will have anyway!

The next day Roger and Scott decided to blow off their last day at Oudtshoorn and come back via Oorlogs with me.  I didn't have the right shoes with me, cocked up a hard move in the middle, yet had a complete blast. I was with my mates, trying my project in my home kloof. It couldn't really have got any better, could it?

I don't have a photo of Roger on the route, but here he is on the warm up, colour coordinated with the rock and hence invisible:

BTW: we totally ruled the entire week in our vests.