This morning on the way to work I saw an old colleague who suffers from a condition called Petit-Mal (little fits). He was hit in the head by a hockey puck ten tears ago and, as a result, periodically blacks out mid-conversation; staring into space for 4-5 seconds before finding his way back to the original conversation.
He reminded me that whenever this happened (to my eternal shame) I would interject with an entirely new conversation e.g.
‘FOUR HUNDRED MILLION POUNDS!’ or
‘WHERE DID YOU HIDE THE BODY?’ or
‘SAY THAT AGAIN YOU SON OF A BITCH!’
A group of us spent the bank holiday in Betws-y-Coed, Snowdonia preparing for a planned trek to Kilimanjaro in July. My mental training began early when I was subjected to a seven-hour gay-anthem / disco-odyssey on the way up from London.
There was a momentary respite from The Village People in Abergaveny where we stopped for lunch – a strange town that boasts a fancy dress shop, but no open restaurants (the former allowing us to replace ‘The Sombrero of Shame’ – an essential for any bloke weekend).
Arriving in the evening we immediately started loading up on sugar (beer) and protein (cheese-burgers) to see us through the gruelling assault.
The next morning one of the guys announced that he’d recently fallen off a horse while playing polo (!) and was unable to climb the mountain – Instead he would catch a train to the summit. He was quickly overcome in a torrent of abuse (‘God is punishing you for attempting to escape from the middle class’ and‘Throw another poor person on the fire Sebastian‘) etc.
A dodgy breakfast resulted in a condition branded ‘The eponymous double-flush’ (a gesture that implies you are trying to banish something truly monstrous).
…And so – deafened by Donna Summer, limping, hung-over and violently ill, we began our ascent…