|froth, rock, fear|
The value of climbing is not that it’s the greatest thing since powdered ecstasy joy and happiness, but that it puts day time television and politics into perspective. It’s been raining, so I put on the TV for the weather, and watch instead discussions about plastic surgery compared by super enhanced bimbettes pretending that they are shocked and disgusted.
Any way down in the Underworld it wasn’t raining but it was decidedly damp and moist. The sea was running into the cave with a bit of force and thwarted our attempts to bolt a line that I had started earlier, my companion Inigo was winging with some justification, he ended up miserable scared and dejected belaying me for hours on horrible rock with sky hooks that pulled through the rock like it was digestive biscuit, I naturally think it will be another great route, it will clearly never be featured on daytime TV.
As a reward to Inigo I forcibly suggested that to escape we do a route called Dead Kennedys, It is magnificent but foreboding overhanging nature combined with rock that is not guaranteed quality, has repelled all suiters, I personally love it. My appreciation of loose rock has been surgically enhanced by my betters over the years, and my hairstyle is a bit 17th century in that I use powdered limestone to pick out high lights and compliment the colour of my pale northern skin.
The best part of Dead Kennedys is that the belay is a bit of old pipe hammered into a crack, it wiggles seductively if you fondle or grasp it in an urgent way. On Inigo’s ascent he experienced a reluctance to fully submerge himself in the loose charms of the seductive horriface that is the dead Kennedy’s bombayment. His growing pump was reaching massive and spectacular proportions, this was not helped by a severe case of sowing machine leg, I naturally helped matters by cackling! On arrival at the pipe, we inspected his swollen concrete like forearms. His face was drained, he had infact experienced ‘a Whitey’, his hand with a watch had gone blue due to the enormous influx of blood from his head and looked like a cartoon hand, we both agreed that he needed brandy.
|the 9.15 at st pancras station is arriving.|
At the unfashionable café come bar where we drink there wasn’t a tattoo or bit of designer clothing in sight, we drank cheap booze, and Inigo smiled and informed me that dead Kennedys was Ace and Marvellous and Cracking and other stuff.
Team gozo hair dresser
We forgot the sea coming in like a runaway locomotive crashing into the Time Tunnel of the UnderWorld, we forgot the booming noise and the change of air pressure and decided to go again as soon as we could because it's brill.
|The Underworld sweet like a mill pond|