CLUBBING INTO THE WEE SMALL HOURS
The SMC dinner is always a hotbed of discussion, debate and colourful characters and according to Cubby this year's event was no different with proceedings going well into the wee small hours.
It doesn't feel as if a whole year has passed since my last column on the Scottish Mountaineering Club dinner. Have I really been writing that long? Well, yet again the SMC dinner beckoned, or should I say a plea for help by one or two friends, intimidated I suspect by the prospect of standing alone amidst a sea of kilts and grey suits in the most traditional mountaineering club in Scotland. Aye, they can climb grade IX but they're feart of a few old men!
I suppose you could describe me as the type who usually hangs out in the kitchen at parties, lumbered over a washing machine, tinnie in one hand and coffee in the other and engaged in some deep, meaningless philosophical conversation. Having said that, given sufficient quantities of alcohol to assist my awkwardness on the dance floor and combined with a suitably uplifting piece of music, I have been known to boogie the night away. Anyway, this is an SMC dinner so there will be no chance of that!
Ken Crocket, our current president delivered a witty speech with a contemporary air that set a mood for this years dinner. Then he welcomed newly appointed members; representatives of affiliated clubs and awarded Alan Mullin with a cheque for £250 as the W.H.Murray literary prize winner.
The piece de resistance however, has to go to Bill Wallace (vocals), backed brilliantly by Robin Campbell on keyboard. Our unlikely veteran duo, exceeding some 140 years between them by the way, excelled with a splendid rendition of the club song - "Oh my old hob nailers". The kiddie sized keyboard and Robin's over used gnarly novice like fingers, pecking on the keys only contributed to a performance that put the even the most respected household names in British comedy to shame!
Jim Curran, that well-known raconteur, author and film producer (The Bat and The Wicked and Rock Queen - Catherine Destiville) entertained the club with a fine selection of short after dinner stories. And despite his English handicap, was extremely well received - if the howls of laughter are anything to go by. I sat between Tom Prentice and Bill Runciman (a Jacobite MC representative). Bill said that he remembered me in the 70s, soloing up and down all the routes at Aberdour with great ease. I wondered if he was aware that I eventually progressed to the greater ranges of the mighty Craig a Barns, Creag Dubh and even Glencoe!
Tom and I reminisced over the few climbs that we had shared together in the past - a new route at Meagaidh, the Bonatti Pillar on the Drus - in the wake of Patrick Valencant who was celebrating the 40th anniversary of Bonatti's first solo ascent; and of snowy days in Northumberland with Rob Kerr and the Ayatolah of British rock climbing, Ian Duckworth. Having been educated at Harrow, Tom stood out from others and often, through no doing of his own, provoked a source of classist orientated discussion. Following on from abandoned studies in law, Tom has always been involved in journalism. Early days with the Paisley Daily Express led to a senior post with Climber Magazine and TGO and he now works freelance.
"How are you finding journalism?" he enquired. "Well it's fine when you are inspired but it's a different story producing work on a regular basis. I find it very hard to be honest." I think Tom was pleased that I was honest. Fair-haired, of slight build and sharp features, Tom would characteristically close his eyes, press his thumb and index finger against his forehead and think very conscientiously about what he was about to say next, which was almost as if he was exasperated. He always delivered an articulate question or answer but the long pauses often tempted butting in, to complete the sentence for him and more often than not wrongly anticipated, which I'm sure must have annoyed Tom. "Well," he said, "if its any consolation I have always found it very hard as well and...I'm afraid to say, it doesn't get any easier." I had expected Tom to finish as news reporters do on TV, "This is Tom Prentice, at the SMC dinner, Fort William".
At the AGM, the club expressed concern over its general decline in numbers, which in the main was due to a lack of young up and coming climbers. Surprise, surprise. It is clearly a transitional period for the SMC, a lot of its long established elders have passed away in recent years and the gap needs to be filled. And so the topic of conversation swung round to ways in which the SMC could be regarded in a more desirable light. The prerequisite number and level of climbs it was suggested should perhaps be more flexible.
Like a lot of things, from climbing walls to pubs, clubs and cafes, creating the right ambience or scene is very important and in this respect the image of the SMC is one to which the younger generation are not naturally drawn. Import a number of the right type of climber and maybe things will change. The hours and beers rolled by. It was now 4.30 in the morning and the majority of the sensible ones had retired to bed. From the few that I spoke to, it soon became quite evident that I was in the minority as far as a flexible pre requisite is concerned. I was firmly reminded, by both new and established members, that the emphasis within the club is on mountaineering, winter mountaineering above and beyond all.
This preconceived naivety is nicely plucked out in Stevie Haston's most recent chat show in OTE magazine. Stevie talks about the BMC and the way in which money is made available to just about all and sundry as far as the mountains are concerned, regardless of how insignificant the expedition's objectives are. While on the other hand, potentially world-class kids are denied the opportunity to develop their rock climbing or competition skills. Sad but true. The really sad aspect to these young climbers is that many of them stem from backgrounds where a lack of money is a real issue, while some expeditions involve climbers who hold down well-paid, respectable jobs. Money to them is not an issue and on some occasions, rumour has it that money can be made! Imagine the SMC turning down someone like Malcolm Smith, a world-class rock climber and boulderer. A young man responsible for a major rise in climbing standards because he has no interest in winter, unlike his father and fellow member of the SMC.
Personally speaking, I think that just as much mountaineering skill and technique are required in big multi-pitch rock climbs, in the Dolomites, the Bregalia, Mount Whitney in the States etc. Perhaps more so than a few grade IV's that involve an easy approach, pitch by pitch ascent and a short walk off! Enough said.
Mind you the club is undergoing more changes than you might think in terms of its membership and personalities. Among numerous others, Dave MacLeod and Tommy Denholm were welcomed to the club. Dave needs no introduction while Tommy is an "urchin" from Edinburgh. I don't mean that in the literal sense, the Urchins are a branch of the Edinburgh Squirrels. An open-minded sociable bunch who sort of took us under their wing in the 70s and entrusted us with a key to the Squirrels Drae - a climbers hut in Glencoe. In some respects they were a wild, hardcore group who had done some good things, such as the second winter ascent of Terrordactyle on Lost Valley Buttress.
I suppose as with others, who take their climbing quite seriously, a healthy diet and low alcohol consumption are important to me. But every now and again I would throw caution to the wind and go out on an almighty binge. Usually during the dark and dingy hours of November before the winter really had a chance to get started. I always remember a house warming party hosted by Tommy somewhere in Leith. Our crew were there as usual, Cosmic Dave, "The Porker", Murray, Rab "My Arms Are Giving Out" Anderson and the Alan "The Chimp" Taylor.
Cosmic had concocted some weird and wonderful potion that included Barley and Thunderbird wine spiked with some stuff that Cosmic would describe in a cockney accent, as "Jamaican Rum but only 2/6d a bottle. Lavely stuff me old cock sparra". On the label the print read "Rum Inferno" which was superimposed on a ball of flames! Whatever it was it blew our heads off. Murray sat in a dark corner of the room clutching a pint of the deadly brew, slavering and sniggering at all going on around him. Cosmic and I were holding a conversation with Norma, Tommy's wife, who we all fancied. But the evil brew had taken its toll - all that Dave bore to the world was his Ron Fawcett head band and a burma sheroot (small cigar).
As for myself, not a stitch on! Norma looked us up and down none too impressed, I seem to remember through that drunken haze. And then out of another dark corner of the room one of the Urchins took offence to our naked conversation and leapt on Dave like a bat out of hell. "Ahhhh...f*?!n' hell, what in the hell is the matter with you?" said Dave in a typically bewildered, purple-haze voice. Always up for a scrap, the Chimp dragged himself from a gaggle of Urchin girlfriends and wives and also flew across the room. Everyone went through the glass door and an evening in the infirmary was spent by all involved, plucking glass splinters from our bruised and cut bodies. Murray meanwhile, miraculously still holding onto his pint, was now sniggering out loudly, clearly approving of the evening's entertainment before vomiting on the floor. Not to be outdone, Rab took it upon himself to embark upon a manic clean up frenzy but cracked a glass and sliced his finger, so he too joined us at the infirmary.
So where was I? Ah yes, SMC entry qualifications...mmm! My alcohol induced conversation with Tommy's little brother, George displayed all the hallmarks of a fierce argument, a temptation I resisted strenuously. Our conversation had already circled the planet several times and I eventually realised that I had no chance against a drunken police interrogation officer. Even Robin Campbell, a wee small hours veteran, saw the light and quietly removed himself from the nonsense. But George had a point, he had come up through the ranks, became an Urchin and an associate of the Squirrels and now as an all-round mountaineer he prided himself in becoming a member of the SMC. Bouldering to George simply wasn't playing cricket.
Tom Prentice put forward the point that, did Scotland really contain any mountaineering at all? You can imagine how that one went down! So in fear of defeat, George switched the subject to the ethical aspects of guiding. Meanwhile, over my left shoulder, a heated discussion was brewing between Bob Richardson and Alan Mullin with regards to the amount of in situ gear that was either being left behind or abandoned by winter climbers on popular summer rock climbs. It was a point raised at the AGM and seemed to me to be a fair one. If a climber has an epic and is forced to retreat, then I don't think it would be held against them for leaving gear behind as long as they endeavour to return and tidy up. Bob has a reputation for being, shall I say, hard or tough. Others would describe him differently. Anyhow, when Alan's black, beady eyes transformed into big, bright red orbs, I think Bob got the message and backed off, much to everyone's relief!
Well there you are folks, another day in the life of an SMC dinner. See you next year.
Cubby
6/12/2001
