Tag Archives: Snowdon

Come with me on a journey through mediocrity…

I could have been on the set of a horror movie – moronic ghouls lurching and traipsing and dribbling. Instead I was in Burger King on the M5.

‘Do you want me to cook it myself?’ a friend complained as he lamented the death of customer service.

‘Ogggg uurrrgg,’ the ghoul replied.

It had been a superb bank holiday spent climbing Snowdon, mooching around Conway castle, endless food, and now we were addling back to Reading, eyes flickering in the grip of a meat-coma and contemplating both the loss of fresh air and a return to work.

A change of scene and a complete (work-related) cerebral shut-down gave rise to gargantuan inspiration and a realisation that I have been slacking of late in my literary quest. Subsequent ideas for short-stories include:

‘Perception and reality’ – a elderly actress is involved in a car accident and mistakenly pronounced dead. Waking up she reads a series of damning obituaries about her endless failure and sets about proving otherwise / turning the tables on the journalists who dismissed her achievements.

‘The one true religion’ – reads like a joke – a priest, vicar, imam, rabbi and Buddhist wake up in a sealed room with no idea how they got there.

‘All the food groups’ – black comedy – plane crash survivors huddle in a dingy and spectacularly fail to get on.

‘Plate-spinning’ – deja-vu, too much work rotations and repetitions.

I’ll post them on www.martincororan.com as soon as they’re ready – plus am recommencing entering some short story competitions…

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The Eponymous Double-flush (or ‘Escape from the Middle-class’ part 1)…

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…

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