Monthly Archives: January 2017

Mountaineering in the age of feminism…

It’s the stuff of nightmares. You drive 200 miles to Wales, book a hotel, dress in appropriate attire for climbing a mountain, journey to said mountain, pay for parking, kneel down to tie your shoe-laces and hear the awful tearing sound of your ass making a bid for freedom (Yes, I know, very peachy).

unnamed-4Son of a bitch!

What was I supposed to do – drive the 10 miles back to the nearest town and buy new trousers? There’d only be more people there to notice my shame (plus, as aforementioned, I’d already paid for parking!)

The fog rolled in. Bonus, I thought (as well as added peril obviously).

These are the moments that separate the men from the boys. I kept my cool and asked the most pertinent question: What if women see me?

And then I realised there was a more pertinent question: What if my trousers fall down on a mountain in winter?

I checked the waistband. It seemed sturdy enough. One final question to ensure maximum rigour:

Is the exposed area cold?

I probed about a bit.

No, the exposed area is not cold.

I set off.

It’s fair to say that I was reasonably popular during the ascent (albeit largely with ladies of a certain age guffawing and threatening to manhandle me or poke my bottom with their hiking poles).

I’ve never felt so objectified in all my life. I mean, would it be OK for me to prod a random woman in the derriere just because it was on show? (This isn’t a rhetorical question).

Harnessing the raconteur skills for which I’m world-renowned I kept the feral beasts at bay whilst regaling them with fictional explanations of how my wardrobe came to malfunction. I then slipped on a wet rock and fell on my car keys, giving myself an epic dead-leg and tearing the trousers even further.

unnamedI made good my escape from the cackling hoards.

On the way down I encountered a Chinese businessman and his son. I knew he was Chinese because he told me. I knew he was a businessman as he was climbing in a suit and frock coat and carrying a briefcase.

We exchange frowns – me because of his formalwear and he because my attempts to face him meant that I was walking like a crab.

‘How much further to the top?’ The son inquired.

‘About an hour from here,’ I replied.

His dejected face prompted the father to bizarrely shout, ‘remember honour!’

We spoke briefly, but I was starting to feel a little chaffed, and I imagine he needed to dial into a conference call…

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You Can’t Handle The Truth…

I had to go to court today to challenge a speeding fine. I wasn’t contesting my innocence (it was definitely me). I was claiming that I’d never received the initial accusation or subsequent reminders that had ultimately led to an epic fine. My reasonable but ultimately embarrassing defence: That I’d been caught speeding two other times that year and had responded promptly on both occasions.

Having never been to court before I didn’t realise that I’d need to go through an airport-style security check / metal detector. They let me keep the guitar strings (garrotte) that I’d just bought, but confiscated a sachet of Lemsip (pledging that I could have it back afterwards).

‘Are you aware that you have blood all over your face and shirt?’ one of the guards asked.

‘No, is there a lot?’

‘Quite a bit.’

‘Do you have a mirror?’

He frowned.

Martin Cororan to court 7,’ came over the Tannoy.

‘Is there a sink I could use to make myself more presentable?’

‘There’s a loo just over there, but they don’t like to be kept waiting. Court 7’s at the end.’

I made a beeline for the bathroom and surveyed the damage – two shaving cuts and three large (five-pence piece) blots on my collar (no wonder the guy in the guitar shop gave me a protracted grimace!) Furious scrubbing made the horror less obvious, but now I was soaking wet.

As I exited I was struck by just how much sexually graphic graffiti there was on the inside door. It would seem the one place you’d wish to avoid being caught casting dispersions regarding who had a penchant for fellatio, but hey-ho.

There were three magistrates in the courtroom sitting behind a long table. I was asked to step into the dock whereupon I instantly became guilty of all things.

My voice sounded calm as I answered their initial questions.

Just like a sociopath  I thought. If I were them I’d think ‘That guy incurred those cuts having crashed his car whilst speeding to attend the hearing. Lets lock him up forever…’

Proceedings went a little sideways when I was asked when the offence occurred. I didn’t know the exact date and neither did they (as the records were held elsewhere). I was asked to hazard a guess.

I was then asked how I wished to plead in relation to the charge of speeding.

In the surreal moment of being before three people, two of whom had not looked at me once and in a slightly elevated isolated booth I felt the question was a little ambiguous. Was this the first part of a two-part question?

‘How do you mean?’ I asked like an imbecile. ‘I’m guilty of driving over the limit.’

‘Over the limit?’

‘The speed limit.’

It was clarified for me. ‘The speeding fine has been set aside Mr. Cororan.’

‘…Which I’m guilty of.’


‘In that case, not guilty.’

The Cororan Defence: Proving your innocence of one crime by revealing you’re way more guilty of another…

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