Invent a new flavour of crisp

Invent a new flavor of crisps

I'd like to start this post by explaining that i've given myself many distractions during the upcoming week of this blog entry. It's deadline was saturday the twenty eighth of April and i am submitting mine on the first of May. 

I'd also like to point out that the title this month was provided by me and i truly regret writing the words down on the paper before putting it into the hat.

So here we go:

Ladies and gentlemen feast your eyes, mouths and bellies on a crisp. 

But what?

You've never heard of Prime Spud (trademark) before?

NONSENSE! Prime Spud (trademark) is the new crisp on the tip of everyones tongue. It has perfect texture. Perfect CRUNCH! PERFECT FLAVOURS!

That's right, our great variety of flavours will have you trembling with pure potato pleasure!

Flavours like: Number 1, number 2, number 3, number 5, number 7, number 11, number 13, number 17.......

Waaaaa?

THAT'S NOT WHAT PRIME SPUD (trademark) STANDS FOR!

We have REAL flavours, such as:

Dragon Age flavour. Wrap your tongues and bite your teeth into the tantalizing taste of Archdaemon Dragon stake flavour. It's Fiery!

How about Fallout: New Vegas Falvour? These crisps are RADIOACTIVE! And that's not even the best part! They taste better than a DeathClaw omelet! Mmmm.

If that's not you're style, why not try Dead Space flavour! Have you ever tasted pure zero gravity? It'll chop your limbs off! 

All these flavours and many more at your nearest Prime Spud Crisp stand. Or get them online at primespudcrisp.com/unreal/reallynotreal! Standard delivery charge.

 And for one month only you can get our limited edition flavour.

CROC FLAVOUR! You get the true taste of classic platformer legend Croc with a peppering of Gobbos just for good measure! It has that classic, colourful yet boring taste! GET IT NOW!

Prime Spud (trademark) 

stimulates your

Taste Bud!

*****

Another use for a crisp

Tetrahedron whined plaintively under the ferocious gaze of my dearest wife.  Such a coward, I thought, as I attempted to sidle through a nearby door.  No such luck.

"…and you, Maxi.  Why?!" she trilled at me.  Skies above!

Lounging in one of the many lounging rooms which festoon my manor house, Tetrahedron and I had been workshopping ways in which we could regain some favour in the eyes of our darling Queen Vicky-Tory I.  It is not easy to think up a novel gift for a Queen.  She is sure to have been inundated with an encyclopaedia's worth of novel gifts.  Our gift would have to be more than novel.  It would have to be trilogy.

"Dear Ian," I said to him "we are going to need a very trilogy idea to please Vicky-Tory."  He looked at me blankly.  Quite understandable, of course.  The joke doesn't really work, but I was damned if I wasn't going to use it.  I was irked, and it was the best I could do at the time, so he was going to have to lump it.  "What do you think, then?  Lay your ideas on me."

My good companion indulged in a spot of handwringing, his favourite pastime when he is caught without an idea.  If brains were like secret organisations then all of Ian Tetrahedron's secret operatives were often openly inoperative.  I gave him a moment, and saw the briefest blip from what I could only assume was a very lonely secret agent.

"Well~" Tetrahedron allowed, his hands having been entirely wrung "I've heard that Vicky-Tory is a bit of a snacker, Max, she loves new and interesting snacks."

"Does she?" I replied, feigning distracted disinterest, but in reality I was delighted to be given even this scrap of information.  After all, if this eventually was revealed to be untrue then blame would earth itself to Tetrahedron as the originator of the idea.  A very pleasing state of affairs.

"So I hear, so I hear.  Apparently, she becomes very enthused every time a potato crisping manufacturer runs a competition to invent new and novel flavours.  Rumours tell that she never invents flavours herself, but she is free and easy with her rewards for those who do."

Eyes aglitter with a plan spreading out organically in front of me, I smiled and clapped Tetrahedron heavily on the back.

We found ourselves in a large industrial building the next day, not in the main hollow but, passing through an officious-looking portal we were shown to a smaller, meticulously clean room.  It was a spacious kitchen area, the surfaces gleaming with fresh cleanliness and the reflections of the equally clean implements which adorned the walls.  The room's cupboards had glass windows, behind which we could see all manner of pots and pans.  In my suit, I felt a little out of place.  I would have felt worse were it not for the similarly besuited Tetrahedron beside me.  The presence of my correctly attired butler, Simkins, became an instant annoyance.  We'd brought him along as we figured that he had more practical experience when it came to… well, maybe not cooking.  Perhaps we simply felt he was more practically experienced generally.  He certainly has silver hair, which suggests an amount of experience.

I could have directly confronted Simkins, since it was his butlerian responsibility to clothe me appropriately.  How was I to know?  It is not for me to know which clothes I should wear, that is why I employ the man!  But it doesn't do to directly confront the staff.  It simply isn't Done.  The Willoughbys never confront their staff, and in this way we can hold our heads high and proclaim that we have the best staff; staff that never make mistakes.  Catching my eye, Simkins closed the space between us and with an imperceptible lowering of his head informed me that factory clothes for Tetrahedron and myself were contained in the rucksack he'd prepared.  I would have felt bad for doubting him, but fortunately I am a Willoughby, and so I hadn't.

Mentally wiping my brow I caught sight of a figure approaching us at a pace.  With a stride so strident it approached goose-stepping, the figure bore down upon us and in our turns visited us each with a wank-stopper of a handshake.

"Basil Fullsugar, gentlemen," he declared, steadying himself and sucking a full breath through teeth clamped tight in an eternal grin.  Ah yes, one of Isabella's friends.  It never ceases to amaze me that my dearest wife, Lady Isabella Willoughby, manages to keep acquaintances with people so many and varied.  Such strange creatures, most of them.  This Fullsugar fellow was an entrepreneur who'd made his mark on the business world because of the fascinating and commendable things he thought to do with potatoes.  Quite scandalous, some of them, but you know the sorts of things that'll excite the plebs.  Who better to help us in our endeavours to win back the favour of our splendid Queen?

All kitted out appropriately, we were soon up to our navels in potato viscera, and we juddered industriously in a frenzy of creation.  We were Veg Lords, Masters of all that Grows Below Ground.  When the snackers of the world experience how delectable our snack is, we thought, they would curse themselves as buffoons for ever having delected anything else.  The value of deliciousness was about to be engorged beyond all recognition.  Or so we thought.

Fullsugar had insisted that he would accompany us to Court so that we could present our new flavour to the Queen.  You don't get to be a successful entrepreneur by missing a trick.  Fullsugar was a canny devil, he had developed a second sight which acted like a sheet of coloured gauze which could descend over his eyes and highlighted each and every trick in a prominent golden colour.  "I am a fucking trick!" each trick would scream, "don't miss me!"  And he didn't.  However, as the miners who discovered the sparkling faeces of the underground armpiglets now appreciate, not all that glitters is gold.

Resplendent in her regal finery, a shimmering magisterial glow hovering around her, Queen Vicky-Tory Thronetaker the First choked on a crisp.  A detonation of jagged fried tater shards hurriedly evacuated her mouth and settled in the hair of her nearby sycophants.  I swear I saw one of them pick a crumb out of his hair and ferret it away in his pocket; a potential family heirloom.

Shocked, hurt and angry, Vicky-Tory's gaze swept upon us like the beam of the lighthouse of utter buggery.  Had I not seen him since, I would swear that the look turned Tetrahedron to ash on the spot.  The Queen was quickly ushered to seclusion, and we three inventors made ourselves scarce.  We were confronted by Coyster, the Queen's secretary, as we attempted to make good our escape.  He pushed our crisps into our reluctant arms, and with eyelids at half-mast droned at us.  "Gentlemen, while some saucy individuals may delight that their rubber preventatives have the interesting flavours usually attributed to crisps, no single person, and certainly not our Queen, enjoys the situation being reversed."

We later discovered that Tetrahedron had gleaned his secret information from none other than Dominic leRevven, the greasy sponge, who'd set us up for a fall.  No doubt he was delighted by the stupendous scope of our regrettable misfire.  Condom flavoured crisps.  How was I to know?  I've never had the misfortune of tasting such devices, nor have I visited such on my dear wife.  No indeed.  We use no protection, and should we have the grand misfortune of falling pregnant then we will have an abortion as the Lord intended.

As I had done countless times before I glanced at Tetrahedron and wondered why I continued our acquaintance.  My wife fumed animatedly and the room become claustrophobic as it filled up with her copiously offloaded ire.  Slumped in my fourth favourite armchair, Basil Fullsugar was a pathetic, broken figure.  He had built his reputation on potatoes, and now his empire was mash.  How fickle is popularity I thought, safe in the knowledge that I had never had the ill-fortune of being popular.  Weeping wanly into his golden cufflinks, Fullsugar deflated even further.

Well, I thought to myself, though this has largely been a complete mess of a day, at least a well-respected, successful businessman has been brought to his knees for no reason at all.  Though nothing of worth had been achieved, nor any progression or advancement made, at least the status quo had been shaken up a little.  There's little worse in this world than stagnation, I thought to myself, dipping a bourbon biscuit into my milk and eating it with a single bite.

*****

Dafydd Evans
Adam Gilder

Rules. RULES!

Ever hear of the story about a little boy who broke all the rules? Have you heard the one about the boy who obeyed all the rules? What about the one where the rules broke the boy?

I haven't heard, read or told any one of these. Until now!

The boy who broke all the rules
Sammy was eight and lived in his treehouse. He built it himself from wood that he stole from the pallet factory not far from his parent's house. He stole his dad's hammer and pulled nails out of the useless furniture he found dumped in skips and dumps. He wasn't supposed to go wandering the way he did and he filled his parent's with worry but he always came back in high spirits.
His treehouse was built without plans but to his credit, it was quite strong even with it's jagged edges and creaky walls. He lived there as long as he could, until he grew out of it's limited space. Against his want he lived back with his parents to take advantage of its size and heat and significantly smaller distance to a shower. Much like the treehouse the boy grew into a quite strong being with jagged edges and creaky walls, in that he didn't react well to a simple telling off and he didn't let people get to know him. He often dismissed orders, not for a lack of respect , although many people saw it as that, but for desire to do his own thing. He lived in his own body and wanted it to move to his own will. Although, he wouldn't dismiss an opportunity to indulge himself in a good idea, regardless of the lips that expressed it. He wasn't daft.
This man had created a blanket of independence and wrapped himself snugly in it. So snug in fact that his independence had manifested a deadly efficiency. The man was a builder, a craftsman, a man of vision and excellent hands. He honed his skills during his years of constant exercise and experience. His curiosity had fueled him into a master. He had developed an ability to maneuver his hands to create any shape, any tool, any object that his world needed or his mind wanted. This had earned him a comfortable living as his skill was in demand. The boy who broke the rules was now a man who made his own.

The boy who obeyed all the rules
The boy who obeyed all the rules was truly adorable. He did what he was told, like you'd expect from a boy with such a title. He was well kept and life was easy. He always knew what he had to do and did it to the best of his ability. School was easy and quiet. He had a couple of close friends, all of which were loyal to each other. They knew this was important in an environment as volatile as school. Their defense was to remain unnoticed to the kids who enjoyed mischief and drama, while quietly nabbing the attention of the authority figures who set the rules they obeyed so well. The close friends hit their late adolescence hard and had developed a need to impress their peers, mainly the ones with pretty eyes and full breasts. But the boy had his rules. One that was ingrained was to not have a girlfriend, for they distract him from his work. The rules, set in place by his family were there to protect him from his life's path (also set by his family) to be a doctor. A credit to society. So the boy did what he was told, achieved the necessary, perfect grades and went to university, where despite living away from his family he followed his rules and kept to himself and achieving his necessary, perfect grades and went on to be a doctor.
It was here that his life was turned upside down. True, there are many rules to follow when you're a doctor. Certain diseases and illness' require certain, specific treatments in order to achieve the desired results. However, patients, a.k.a. people have such different rules of engagement. To deal with this he used one very important rule: Ask Questions.
He asked beyond the necessary questions; "How/why are you not well" or "what happened". He asked about them. Their lives, their stories, their interests and so on. He learned that most of these people were there because they broke a certain rule. He also learned that these same people usually had a reason to break the rules. Through this he learned that rules are useless without your own reason to follow them, which he realised that up until now, he hadn't.
This was a conclusion that changed his life and lead to a new beginning.

The rules that broke the boy
There was this boy who broke the rules deliberately to be "cool". This eventually got him into jail. He changed the way he did things. He followed some rules that lots of people followed. But then he realised that man of the rules that the mass of people were following often contradicted themselves. This put a lot of stress on his mind and he couldn't figure out what to do so he jumped off a cliff. The rules broke the boy.

*****
"I never was one for rules," quoth leRevven, tossing back his caramel locks with a vicious whip of his neck. His hair flowed straight back to its original position, running in the well worn rivulets of his ludicrously flamboyant 8-inch collar which jutted directly to the heavens. Blinking languorously at me and indulging in a sneer which revealed one of his canines, leRevven flumped impolitely into my favourite armchair. Swinging his legs over an arm, and arching himself so as to be looking at me upside down, he continued.

"In all honesty Max, I've come to see rules as things which apply exclusively to women, foreigners and the poor."

Dominic Grothandler leRevven, Viscount Yellowpool, is a man who puts the dick into lack of decorum. Swinging his kinkyboot clad feet playfully over the side of my armchair, I concentrated very hard on the possibility that he in fact was an apparition of my overtired mind, but as much as I willed him away, there he remained. For all his declared disinterest in rules, his face obeyed the edict of gravity, and I was treated to the oddness of having the flab of his face sinking to his forehead. I redoubled my efforts to will him away.

"Nevertheless, dear heart, our good Queen sees things differently, and so here am I, to collect her dues, as per the rue-ells."

In many of the lands of this world who deign to appoint monarchs make the claim that those who reign therein are God's chosen. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, for us, our Queen is actually God's chosen ruler. We know this for certain because of the intriguing and rather colourful goings on which are the meat and potatoes of her Court. Early on in her reign, the voices of dissent were many and varied, as the aristocratic class had become used to the jellyspined rule of her predecessor, King Andreas "Jellyspine" Fondura IV. We perhaps should have foresaw a different approach by taking note of the way in which our current Queen came into power. It will go down in history as the least complex, most direct coup de tat ever witnessed. There was young Jellyspine, giving in to us as usual, in the middle of a hearing, sat in his throne, kinging well and good, when Vicky-Tory Towncharger simply storms in, lofts a mace above and her head and mushes him entirely. Poor bastard.

She was an ageing marauder who'd tired of the constant travel and the limited amenities that brought with it, and she'd seen fit to alter that situation, because she could. Vicky-Tory was not born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but she'd bloody well got one there now. Her moniker, Towncharger, had been earned as she was avoiding justice in some far flung shanty town, and in the course of her making good her escape, she found she was being blockaded by an entire town, which had slunk from nearby to assist. Not lacking resolve, she'd reared back on her trusty steed Hog and simply charged. Rumours have it that even the taverns dived out of the way.

She was definitely a frightening sort of woman. At least Jellyspine would have been utterly anaesthetised as the mace made pudding of his skull; as she towered over him he would have been eye-level with her thighs, which were the sort of thighs which could grind a horse to dust between them. Legend says that to see her thighs is to leave your mind with no room to think of anything else.

Since taking the throne, Queen Vicky-Tory Thronetaker I had decreed very little, she simply asked that anytime a noble left the country, they are duty-bound to present the Queen with a gift on their return. I had recently visited the Duchy of Bastard, a small stakeholding in which I have an interest, and due to Circumstances whilst there, I found it necessary to beat a hasty retreat. Gifts the last thing on my mind, I returned home, and that explains why I was being graced with the presence of my dear, dear friend Viscount Yellowpool.

"Where's the gift, Max?"

I became slightly irked by his insistent tone. Sat in the corner with his head bowed and hands between his thighs, Tetrahedron, the Duke of Frisbee, was clearly entirely engaged in an attempt to will himself elsewhere. He had accompanied me on my excursion, but since he was a man of a more Bastardly outlook, he had not flown when the situation orgied. As such he had remembered a gift for our dear Queen. He had already handed leRevven the gift, a curious girdle with an ornate statuette of a long mushroom jutting out of it. Quite what the good Duke was thinking I don't know, but not knowing the use of such an accessory, I cannot begin to speculate. As good a friend as Tetrahedron is, he hadn't remembered to pick up a second gift from me, and for that he was in the shithouse, what?

Mercifully, it was at this point that Lady Willoughby cannoned into the room, and like trick photography leRevven vanished from his rude position in my very favourite armchair, and reappeared, stood rigidly to attention, several feet further into the room. His face was glistening with a sheen of what we refer to as the "leRevven Lady Willoughby Sweats". Isabella does have quite the effect on Dominic, childhood friends as they are. She simply smiles and hurries to a task at hand when I bring it up, but through the grapevine I've discovered that his tremulosity around her stems from a youthful hijink where she held him captive for several days at the bottom of a well on her, quite expansive, family estate. Dominic cannot hear the name of Crosshill Quartz without twitching very noticeably.

"Ehurghahahaha, Isabella, bella!" released leRevven, a gatling staccato of nerves escaping his vocal aperture. Lady Willoughby swept across the room, her skirts trailing out behind her dramatically, giving the impression of a swimming octopus entangled in drapes.

"Domma! Why didn't you tell me you'd come!? Here you are hiding away with Maxi and Ian, when you could have the pleasure of my company! Surely you've become unstable to have chosen them over me?"

Making a noise like a plug being pulled out of a bath of golden syrup, leRevven swallowed and, gesturing slightly too energetically, whined

"It is on business I'm afraid, Bella, in and out."

"You're being run ragged by that Vicky!" declared Lady Willoughby stridently, a cartoonish pout swelling on her.

"Yes, indeed," I quickly interjected, so as not to appear sidelined by my better half.

"Ehurghno, no," he assured us, "it's an honour to serve her Majesty. Collecting gifts for her is a joy!"

The dawn of false realisation broke over Lady Willoughby's face with the subtlety of nuclear holocaust. Fortunately, in his state of jitters, her thespianic efforts slipped past leRevven unnoticed. Delving wholehandedly into her expansive pockets, Lady Willoughby extracted a vial which contained a vivid electric blue substance of jam-like consistency.

"Here's Maxi's gift from Bastard, he offered it to my protection when he returned. You know how absentminded he can be!" she whinnied, releasing a full bellywobbler of a guffaw afterwards.

"Ha." I rejoined, to show game.

"It's a salve, Dommy. It's possibly the most exciting thing that Maxi could have brought back. It is said to heighten all the senses. I know that Vicky's days of adventuring are behind her, but should she ever take it upon herself to embark on some grand effort, she is sure to enjoy herself far more should she utilise this lotion."

Understanding well her meaning, Dominic leRevven had the vial in his gloved hands and quickly exeunt, ever eager to escape Isabella. As Lady Willoughby shook her head at Tetrahedron, I thought of how I owed so much to my darling life companion. I had so very nearly come acropper of our Queen who, while not a vicious tyrant, enjoyed gifts to a frankly excessive degree. Her eyes then fell on me, and as I offered a silent thankyou by way of a nod, I wondered which would have been the worse for me, bearing the scorn and whispers which would have accompanied my lack of gift, or missing out on whatever use my dear wife had originally intended when she'd purchased that vial.

Curtly goodbyeing Tetrahedron, we retired to the bedroom.

*****

The act of completing this piece causes me to both flout and conform to rules. I flout it by completing it passed the agreed upon deadline, it conforms to them by having me actually complete it.

I have always had a strange relationship with rules, being someone who both respects and gates them. I loathe being told what to do, and am often the sort of person who is a reverse psychologists' nocturnal emission. But the, I respect the boundaries which are imposed by them.

I think this has a great deal to do with my being a person who is easily irked. I can also have a certain rigidity about me which I actively try to work against.

But rules are important, like it or not.

I like to imagine a game of chess. The amount of patterns and combinations that can be created is phenomenal, as is the fact that you could spend a lifetime studying the game in order to attempt to master it. But this is only made possible by rules, because without rules, the pawn would swamp the board, the queens would terrorise the board and the knights would trample everyone.

Equally, if we had chaos and no rules, then society would be like this game.

But rules are a touchy subject in society, because depending on what rules you like and what rules you don't can dictate how acceptable you are and by whom you are accepted. Political rules, social rules, sexual rules, behavioural rules. They're all complex issues that are decided upon by the majority and is often decided upon unofficially, unspoken. And when were we given the choice?

We are almost certainly living the life decided upon by our ancestors. We are reaping the rewards and the chastisements of our forebears.

To sign off from this unfunny and, to be honest, hastily written piece, I leave you with this thought;
Rules are only as valuable as the people who abide by them.

*****

Dafydd Evans
Adam Gilder
Gethin Down

Walking Up the Mountain

Just another day in the mountains

I grew up on the side of a mountain. I've always had access to a mountain path and during my childhood i spent as much time as possible scrambling up trees, rolling down hills and playing hide and seek in an environment that was made for the game.

When the topic pulled out of the hat read; "Taking a walk up the mountains" I smiled, puzzled. I can't really remember in depth my interesting and fun moments as a child. I can't really write about my childish, adult times up mountains, either because I obviously care too much about what you think of me, don't I?

No.

That's why im going to start with a short tale of my walk home following a house party. There wasn't too many people there, just a dysfunctional couple joined by a friend each. We played games and got very, very drunk. The next day I woke up and walked home and here's where the tale middles.

The walk is a particular favorite of mine. The path lies adjacent to a river and the noises are sweet and soothing. The water varies from a trickle to a miniature torrent as I press on. The chirping of at least 4 different kinds of bird can help you ignore the most fierce hangover. Curiosity takes charge and you start focusing at random parts of any tree to try and find the source.

I crossed a bridge and continued south, adjacent to the river when i noticed a heron fishing. I tried to stay quiet but i was made and the heron zipped away. My eyes followed the heron as it flew with a clumsy grace back to his nest.

I decided to find a bench and take advantage of the calming scenery and write in my diary. It was a slight relief to take off my trusty but heavy rucksack and sit down. I flipped through my diary only to find that I wrote in it the night before. Having slight flashbacks of sitting on the stairs with a pen and nothing to write, I read what i wrote. It was difficult to navigate my drunken handwriting but i could make it out.

******* is pissing people off because he wont leave the music alone. I knew he wouldn't. I love how much he's a weird control freak.

***** is well after me. She's trying to read my diary. I may try and read her clitoris. All i have to do is ask.

I laughed through the hangover headache at these drunken mini paragraphs. I still don't remember the night but im sure i didn't ask her if i could read her clitoris. I should have, probably, but i didn't. Im too nice. I read the back of my diary and she left me a little message, bless her. I won't write it here because they're not my words but she was kind and doesn't deserve to have me write about her clitoris like i have.

I realise that this isn't much of a story about a walk in the mountains. It's more of a thing that happened. Lucky for you, i have prepared something else.

It has a similar leading story, set on a night out. I was out with two of the three writers of this blog. They got drunk and i didn't. I plan on keeping it that way for a while. We went back to their house where we met the last writer who stopped off there after going to a wedding. I had my mind set on walking home this night because we were recording the podcast the next day and home was where my material was. Plus i wanted to be weared out as i was having trouble sleeping.

As i tried to leave i had my wearing out began and it got intense. I found myself in a 2 on 1 handicap match with the people i went out with. I could tell that the third one wanted to join but he must not have felt it fair. "Don't walk home you'll die" was their logical reasoning. I knew it had a kernel of danger but my heart was set on walking home and i am very stubborn. Long wrestling match short, I got my way and i left, to the dismay of my caring friends.

It was two am and i took the mountain path instead of the road. I figured that was the best way of avoiding people and cars. The air was a fine mist and the smallest droplets of rain were running down my face. It was the kind of rain that would keep your back dry as long as you didn't stop moving forward. 

It was as black as the back of my mouth. And this night i learned that the most important thing a man can have on his key-ring is a small LED light. Mine has never proved mighty useful until now. It was so bright at the source that i couldn't hold it out in front of me as my eyesight would get polluted and i'd make out less of my surroundings. My remedy to this was to hold it high above my head and point it forward like a walking angler fish. This way i could see where each puddle was and know that it was leaves that were falling and not Deaths hands.

The walk got interesting when i reached Trehafod Park. The home to all sorts of scenery that i never thought to look scary until now. I shined my angler bait over the lake and shuddered. The most terrifying noise helicoptered right next to my ears. A noise that i was sure i'd have to fight and run away from in the pitch black surroundings. It turned out that i had a similar effect on the noise's source. A duck flew away.

I gathered myself and kept walking, composing a soothing song next to the rhythm of my footsteps. The arching tunnel of trees got less and less scary with every step. My eyes had acclimatized to the darkness and i could make out the puddles without my torch. I figured that if i don't scare the animals, they wont scare me. My song had hit it's middle 8 when i felt the need to stop dead. Something was close. I shined my torch, not thinking about it's brightness, having to blink to adjust. As i looked down i noticed a cheeky little frog sitting right next to my right foot. I inspected it closer, tucking down to get a better focus. It was fearless. It didn't care that i was there, it just stood there, breathing slowly and it moved its arms forward to touch my shoe. I tittered to myself and said my goodbyes to the frog, which is now named Frog, and carried on walking. 

I carried on to where a path meets a bridge when i saw a small shape. I shined my key-ring in it's direction and saw a little rabbit sizing me up. It thought the better and ran off. Wildlife is most excellent when it's past their bed time.

I started nearing civilization. I could tell because the mist that was in the sky was trapping the street light, making it easier for me to see. I had to cross a second bridge that give me a birds eye view of the ferocious river beneath. I couldn't resist the feeling. Who has done what i was about to do before? No one under these conditions, im sure. So i stood in the middle of the bridge, unzipped my jeans and peed over the side into the river. My childish, fulfilling moment was over and i carried on walking. My inner song had developed lyrics and now i was singing my way home.

I was so close to getting home. I could actually see street lights. There were also floodlights from a construction site beaming brightly into the sky when i saw my final bit of wildlife. The path ends next to a small, rarely used car park. There was one car parked quite well which i originally thought belonged to the surveyor of the construction site i'd walked past. I was wrong. As i walked past, making sure to not get too close and look suspicious, i saw a couple sweetly dogging on the back seat. The lady saw me and gathered herself enough to lock the door of the car before returning to the thralls of ecstasy. 

I walked past laughing and made my way home, where i showered and slept like a log.

*****

This extract is taken from the memoirs of Lord-Professor Vivian Smartie-John.  

(The transcript of an after dinner talk given to The Royal Assembly of Ambling Gentry.)

Gentleman, it is undoubtedly, a pleasure for you, to be here today listening to me.  [Applause].  I, as you know, am Lord-Professor Vivian Smartie-John.  I am here today, to talk to you about the use of hand looms in rural England [polite applause].  As you all know, the use of hand looms was integral to [murmuring off stage].  What?  Oh, yes, mountains.  Haha!  Mountains.  Yes, well, hmm, let me see...

Mountains, as you all know are very tall [applause].  I first encountered a mountain when I was a child.  My dear father, the previous Lord Smartie-John took me up a mountain as a child and I knew from that moment on that I wanted to go walking...up the mountains [cheers, applause].

Now, the thing that drove me, ultimately, to my years of walking up the mountains was the death of my dear manservant, Pulli.  It was a tragic end, my attack on him, and, had I my time again, I would have hit him much harder the first time.

This, resulted in my timely ascent to the mountains of the world, as the local authorities will never apprehend an ambling gentleman.  

I will now tell you my favourite story about my time up the mountains [raucous applause].

It was during my time in the Him-mah-lee-as, where my eyes were opened to the wonder that can be found in the walking up of the mountains.  

On the first day of my arrival, having gotten lost on my way home from Kenya, I was met with the moving sight of the greatest mountains I had ever seen.  In that moment, I knew: I would walk up them. [Applause].

And so it was that, having discovered the Him-mah-lee-as, I became the greatest mountaineer ever known to man.[Applause]

And so I began to walk up the Him-mah-lee-as.  It was an arduous journey, but not for me, because I knew what I was doing and I eat my greens.  

So when I was doing my walking up the mountain, I saw many wondrous sights, some of which are too good for you.

One thing I will tell you about is the existence of the abomniababable snowman.  Abonormal snow...abinormal....Yeti.  

I met Yeti during my walking uo the mountains.  It is an often contested point of whether or not the Yeti is a myth and I have absolute proof that it is no such thing; I have seen it.  [applause].  Stop throwing knickers.

I have also tangible evidence of old Sassy cwatch's existence.  

One evening as we sitting around the camp fire, playing mountain chess, which is a kind of chess designed not to be effected by low oxygen levels, developed by me, Lord-Professor  Vivian SmartieJohn, Yeti walks into the camp.

“Good even chaps”, said Yeti, “I see you're playing mountain chess, that chess what is not effected by the levels of the oxygen”.

“Whoever you are, you big hairy blister prick, you grammar is appalling.”

“Don't be silly, Smartie, it's me, Lord Frederick Mound, you went to school with my ancestor, remember?”

“Ah, I see, you hairy little blumpkin, you're a Yeti!”

“If you like,” he said, with a cheeky ape grin.

So we played chess for hours and hour, the Yeti and I.  I always won, because I am far better at anything than anyone. [Applause].

However, I realise that you will all desire more tangible evidence, and you are lucky enough for me to have realised this at the time.

During our last game of mountain chess, Yeti made the terrible mistake of cheating.  After having moved his pawn, he took his beastly finger from the piece, then, seeing how vulnerable he was to my terrible air-strike technique, he moved the pawn back a square [murmurs of disgust] and I was incensed with righteous anger.

“Smartie, what's wrong?” asked the furry fucker, but I didn't answer him, no!

Discussion is the symptom of a weak mind.

I went to my pack and fetched my good pick.

I can't quite recall what happened next, but at the time I could only think about my poor manservant and the bedpan.

When I looked down on the body of Yeti, I felt regret...

I fetched my blunderbuss and shot him in the face to make sure that he would not rise again.

Where were we..ah, yes, evidence.

I intended to skin him and, upon removing the pelt, which I wear now as a wonderful coat [aaah], discovering that it was a coat and that underneath it's white coat was my friend, Lord Frederick Mound, whose ancestors I had schooled with.  I felt sick at the discovery that the Yeti had swallowed Lord Frederick whole, and I have made it my lifelong duty to always drop fire bombs on mountain tops, obliterating the indigenous population of Yetis, Sassy-cwatch's, and other dangerous apes and snowmen.  [cheers, whistling]

In conclusion, my dear Gentry, I leave you with this pearl of wisdom, walking up the mountains is good fun, but one must always be firm with great apes and manservants, and one must always ensure that one's arsenal is at hand while playing mountain Chess.

Thank you. [cheers, applause, screaming] STOP THROWING KNICKERS!

*****

Uppa Mountain

I don't often walk up the mountain, but it is an activity I have come to value highly, and is something I always come back to.  There are many reasons I've gone walking up the mountain, and many things I hoped to get out of it when I did so.  I plan on muddling my way through a clumsy explanation of some of these occasions and outcomes.

As a child I lived on a street that sat on a hill, with numerous pathways surrounding that led up the mountain.  From the age that I was allowed out to play on the street we, myself and friends, would extend our play up the mountain.  I grew up clambering up grassy slopes, weaving through tress, getting muddy and covering myself in bruises.  I knew the mountain.

Taking a walk alone, I would explain the aim as escapism.  Finding some time alone.  The slow work of walking up a mountain is the perfect backdrop for a change of pace, the perfect context for working through problems that are playing upon your mind.  Sat or lying idle, the mind is a maudlin thing, obsessing over the negative, allowing mood to fester.  If you're in a bad place; frustrated, depressed, angry or similar, idleness rarely helps.  Swimming or exercising are often used to the same ends as I use walking up the mountain, I suppose, I just happened to have a mountain up which to walk.

It was probably when exams started seeming more important that I first started walking the mountain alone.  GCSEs most likely.  They let you off school when the exams are near, and I'd been driven to meltdown due to day after day of housebound revision.  It's a type of academic claustrophobia that I imagine a large number of people go through.  So when I couldn't stomach any more, I walked up the mountain.

I wouldn't consider myself a very visual person; I find that though I look at things, I hardly ever really see them, I'm not being attentive in that way.  When I walk a mountain, my eyes tend to stick to the path, watching for where my feet are going, so that I don't slip on loose stones, or set off a trap, or startle a cave bear.  It's only when I stop and actually explicitly take a look around that I see much of anything.  I'd assume to some extent we are all awed by a huge sweeping perspective view from on high, and that's always a part of a walk that I find hugely satisfying.  The rest of the walk tends to remain in my mind as a blur of colour or texture; vivid, warm and green in sunlight, cold, abstracted and desaturised in the rain.

I tend not to have much in the way of exercise in my life, I suppose I value the mental over the physical and that has manifested itself in the way my day to day activities unfold.  This was particularly true for me as a teenager.  I read, played games and watched television, I'd fallen out of any sport.  Walking up the mountain was possibly the first case of me wilfully putting myself through, and enjoying, an experience that was physically arduous.  There's a different kind of sweat that comes from effort, as opposed to the sweat of being a greasy pudge eating chocolate and playing Vigilante 8 in an overheated bedroom.  I suppose I learnt that relatively late on, unfortunately.

My worldview is fairly ego-centric generally, and I suppose it's time I widened the scope here to include other people in my mountain walk reminiscences.

One of my fondest mountain memories is a ramble I took with a good friend on a scorching day on the eve of an exam (History A-Level, if I remember correctly).  We were both jaded from the exam period, and pointedly anxious about our place in the world, as all people (teenagers particularly so, I would argue) are.  On our way back down the mountain we stopped and sat on a ruin of a small old building, a corner of brick that jutted out from the hillside.  With the sun raging down on us, we sat philosophising and righted the wrong of the world, a friendship, already strong, forged yet stronger in the cloying heat of the hillside.  The next day, at our desks in the neat examination rows, we squirmed with sunburn.

In the summer post-school and pre-Uni, a group of four of us went for a walk up the mountain, reached the top, and carried on.  The usual pathways we walked were clearly defined, yet we reached any number of turn-back points and we found ourselves just carrying on.  Paths ran out, we ran into walls, fences and thick tree-lines, and we simply found our way around, over or through.  A casual walk become something more, and finding ourselves on the opposite side of the mountain, we guessed this was the effort of our entire day.  We hit paths again, and eventually found ourselves in a town at the foot of the opposite side of the mountain.  There's a lot to be said for the daft excitement of finding yourself in a town where you've never been before, a joy that would be ruined by even rudimentary knowledge of local geography.  You never notice how few signposts actually exist until you don't know where you are.  We came home around the base of the mountain rather than going up and back over, and by the time we'd returned, it was dark and we were exhausted through and through.  It was excellent.

The only time I've been comparably exhausted from a walk up the mountain was on a day trip, again as a group of four, to the Brecon Beacons.  We got there early, trudging up the, for me, gruelling first slope, wrapped in a morning mist that turned sunlight to a blinding, all-encompassing blur, was a thoroughly satisfying experience.  I don't feel we made particularly good time, but neither were we lagging.  It is somewhat dispiriting, on some level, to see other walkers passing you, but when they passed us again going the other way, we realised they were playing a very different game.  We didn't go particularly fast, but we kept going, and only realised the folly ambition amazingness of our approach when we turned around and saw the size and sweep of the path back to the car.  I think it's safe to say I was wiped out at the end of that expedition in a way I've been few times in my life.  Struggling excruciatingly up the last slope before the final descent I unhelpfully made my friends laugh by forcing out the curse "Jesus fuck!" as I ploughed, aching, upward.  It was boiling that day, too.

Though I have these stories of walking up the mountain in which funny things happened, the actual benefit of walking with friends is the one I touched upon in the sunburn story.  Recently I went walking with a good friend on a whim.  Having reached a turn-back point we decided to take a side trail and check out a small forest we'd never been into.  Until that point the weather had been pleasant, and our unconsidered clothing choices reflected this.  It started raining, and we carried on.  We were in the middle of a discussion, a chat, a debate, there are so many ways to label the action of talking.  I was with a friend, up a mountain, having a walk and sharing my thoughts, my problems and sharing in his.  There's very few things I would consider being better than that in the entire world, it is a delightful pastime.  I would even go so far as to suggest that, very possibly, it is the best way to fulfil intellectual and emotional aspirations, swelling yourself in good humour and good company.

Walking up the mountain with friends is by no means the only way you can achieve this, but it is a very good way, I have found.  The views are at the very least interesting, and even if the company sours, at least you had a bit of exercise.

Everyone should make a point of walking a bit more, I think.  Unless they walk a lot already.

*****

Dafydd Evans

Gethin Down

Adam Gilder