To be fair, alcohol, bonfires, boiling fat, petrol filled nightlights, pre-schoolers and small boys stripped to the waist running around brandishing firebrands to a background of Iggy Pop raises a few Health and Safety questions.
And let's not forget culpability in a court of law setting.
Ooh errr...
One child hits another on the head with a burning apple, probably soaked in petrol, it's all going a bit William Golding.
The children are thankfully taken away or put to sleep.
I end the evening holding fast to the toilet, coincidentally calling for Piggy and Ralph.
20th August. What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger?
Still in the recovery phase from the so called Middle distance Triathlon, if anything I'd say the effect on the knees has been one of strengthening rather than ruination.
Of course I put that down to Dr Oetker's running method which means lightweight shoes with zero shock absorption and no heels.
The same cannot be said of the calf muscles which received the workout of their life.
I hear Slim Boy Fat is seeking medical advice for one of his knees in preparation for that Ben Nevis Nonsense but still adheres to the conventional cushioned sole and refuses to accept the wisdom of Dr Oetker.
By his description it sounds very like one of Mother's knees but he still has approximately 35 years before the NHS can put one patella in the bin and araldite a proper stainless replacement joint in.
Of course I put that down to Dr Oetker's running method which means lightweight shoes with zero shock absorption and no heels.
The same cannot be said of the calf muscles which received the workout of their life.
I hear Slim Boy Fat is seeking medical advice for one of his knees in preparation for that Ben Nevis Nonsense but still adheres to the conventional cushioned sole and refuses to accept the wisdom of Dr Oetker.
By his description it sounds very like one of Mother's knees but he still has approximately 35 years before the NHS can put one patella in the bin and araldite a proper stainless replacement joint in.
17th August, Aberfeldy Middle Distance Triathlon.
The onboard hydration unit, needless to say, failed before it was even connected on account of a non standardisation of plastic bottle threads.
I didn't allow that small set back deter my efforts in the waters of Loch Tay (12 degrees C.) The water was a bit peaty but fairly clear so I decided to hydrate by drinking a fair amount of it during the warm up.
Although a longer course, the swim proved less hellish than the Jellyfish Triathlon (see previous).
The cycling was, frankly, rubbish with competitors who were really hopeless in the loch catching up and passing me in a most demoralising fashion and that was after following the advice of Slim Boy Fat to eat a date every few miles.
My piss stayed clear then I ate a Snickers bar from one of the roadside 'feeding stations' the hills were steep I may have done irrepairable damage to both knees, then after reaching transition 2 after 90 kms the leaders were coming in from the run, incroyable!
The 'run' was only a half marathon.
I don't even want to go there but you could imagine.
All in all what can only be deemed a pathetic performance of something not far short of seven hours.
I didn't allow that small set back deter my efforts in the waters of Loch Tay (12 degrees C.) The water was a bit peaty but fairly clear so I decided to hydrate by drinking a fair amount of it during the warm up.
Although a longer course, the swim proved less hellish than the Jellyfish Triathlon (see previous).
The cycling was, frankly, rubbish with competitors who were really hopeless in the loch catching up and passing me in a most demoralising fashion and that was after following the advice of Slim Boy Fat to eat a date every few miles.
My piss stayed clear then I ate a Snickers bar from one of the roadside 'feeding stations' the hills were steep I may have done irrepairable damage to both knees, then after reaching transition 2 after 90 kms the leaders were coming in from the run, incroyable!
The 'run' was only a half marathon.
I don't even want to go there but you could imagine.
All in all what can only be deemed a pathetic performance of something not far short of seven hours.
14th August. Half Ironman Full Bladder?
I'm afraid it's impossible to complete the Aberfeldy Half Ironman without gagging on 'Gatorade' or some other electrolyte replacement sports drink.
A length of plastic tubing connected to a water bottle on the bike should enable a near constant supply of fluids.
I stopped short of performing an experimental self-catheterisation with another length of the same pipe.
Isabelle pointed out a female competitor relieving herself during an Olympic cycling event whilst in the saddle so to speak, this must be the accepted norm?
A length of plastic tubing connected to a water bottle on the bike should enable a near constant supply of fluids.
I stopped short of performing an experimental self-catheterisation with another length of the same pipe.
Isabelle pointed out a female competitor relieving herself during an Olympic cycling event whilst in the saddle so to speak, this must be the accepted norm?
4th August. Mountaineering in Clark's Sandals.
"I don't care what you do on your own you're not coming up a mountain in those." was OJ the guide's verdict on my wearing of sandals as far as the snowline. "I'm sorry mate."
In fact if you could have fitted crampons to them I'd have continued as far as the Bertol Hut.
By the time we'd actually got round to the climbing of the Dent Blanche, the weeks main objective, OJ had pretty much relented on the sandal innovation but probably as some kind of punishment I ended up carrying the rope as well as my boots.
It was all on account of the motorcycle and knee incident of the previous week but with hindsight it seems pointless to walk all the way in and out in rigid soled boots.
To make a point I ran down the last few thousand feet of the thirteen and a half hour climb from the hut to the top and down.
"You'll miss the tea and cakes..." I say to OJ when he appears at the car half an hour later.
No comment is forthcoming.
In fact if you could have fitted crampons to them I'd have continued as far as the Bertol Hut.
By the time we'd actually got round to the climbing of the Dent Blanche, the weeks main objective, OJ had pretty much relented on the sandal innovation but probably as some kind of punishment I ended up carrying the rope as well as my boots.
It was all on account of the motorcycle and knee incident of the previous week but with hindsight it seems pointless to walk all the way in and out in rigid soled boots.
To make a point I ran down the last few thousand feet of the thirteen and a half hour climb from the hut to the top and down.
"You'll miss the tea and cakes..." I say to OJ when he appears at the car half an hour later.
No comment is forthcoming.
2nd August. I Shat On The Aiguille De La Tsa.
With the words ringing in my ears "There's an easy way up round the back" I set off for this improbable looking pinnacle at 5 am. This had been the pronouncment a couple of years ago from Dave "The Camel" K, the diminutive guide who never needs to drink.
The Bertol hut and been full to bursting but from the distant lights of the head torches all the other occupants were making their way under the starlight across the snowy wastes towards Zermatt.
Once round the corner there was just me, the vastness of the Swiss Alps and the twinkle of snow crystals underfoot like so many pointless camera flashes at a Robbie Williams concert.
As the sun began to rise behind the Dent Blanche I suddenly felt an urge.
The queue at 4.30 am had meant that normal ablutions had proved impossible.
Squatting down with an incredible view across to the Matterhorn turning gold in the dawn I thought this is probably the most memorable poo of my life.
The Bertol hut and been full to bursting but from the distant lights of the head torches all the other occupants were making their way under the starlight across the snowy wastes towards Zermatt.
Once round the corner there was just me, the vastness of the Swiss Alps and the twinkle of snow crystals underfoot like so many pointless camera flashes at a Robbie Williams concert.
As the sun began to rise behind the Dent Blanche I suddenly felt an urge.
The queue at 4.30 am had meant that normal ablutions had proved impossible.
Squatting down with an incredible view across to the Matterhorn turning gold in the dawn I thought this is probably the most memorable poo of my life.
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