The final chapter of my Argentinian adventure. Complete with epilogue and details of summit successes. Click here for the previous part, or click here for my diary on the mountain.

After some revitalisation, we had to get some of our money changed into Argentinean Pesos. Contrary to what Adventure Peaks had advised, it was the most widely accepted currency and the US dollars we had exchanged were largely useless. Although we definitely lost out by switching our money twice, I was pleasantly surprised by the exchange rate offered in Mendoza. With our pockets only slightly lightened, we made our way back to the hotel through the crowded streets. For a relatively small city, I was staggered at how busy the streets were and indeed how slow people seem to walk. The pavements were narrow and the locals seemed to only have two walking speeds; slow and coma. Treading carefully and trying to project my frustrations by telepathy didn’t have any impact on their urgency, and I was left longing for manhole covers to yield in front of them; plunging them out of sight faster than they’d ever moved before.

The evening brought a discussion of something we’d all been looking forward to. Argentina is of course famed for its steak and before our enforced weight loss, I was determined to indulge. We stormed a restaurant close to the hotel on a recommendation from our guide; which turned out to be more of a buffet. I heaped a large steak on to my plate from the naked BBQ and made a beeline straight for our table. I should have really heeded the warning when it took me a good few minutes and a sweaty brow to split the meat in two. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. It was flavourless, dry and so chewy that you could be excused for thinking it had come from a plasticine cow. I noticed at this point that our guide; who had so vehemently recommended the restaurant, hadn’t touched the steak and instead stuck to white meat. As much as I hoped his GI tract would live to regret this choice, I’m guessing that his committed selection of eatery probably had some sort of financial betterment for him.

The following day was all about permits and food for the expedition. After a leisurely breakfast, we took a short walk over to the permit office in order to obtain our stupidly important A4 sheets that would secure entry on to the mountain. Given their relaxed approach to transatlantic immigration, the formalities for climbing the mountain absorbed most of the morning, and in an advent of logic that would have taken several British think-tanks to surmise, our guides had to visit a completely different location to actually pay for them.

After breaking for lunch, we reconvened at a large supermarket about half a miles walk from our hotel. Splitting into teams, we were given lists of products to find and their associated quantities. Between stealing glances of a very pretty Hispanic woman with a translucent dress and an attachment to products on the bottom shelf, we were largely successful. We piled over 8 trolleys high with everything from toilet role to hot chocolate powder and; much to the bemusement of the store manager, preceded towards the checkout. I have a photo, taken just at the point where we realised that we’d blown the budget and didn’t have the funds to pay. The look on our guide’s face was priceless and it was only the generosity of one of our group that saved the day.

If we’d perhaps been a bit more cunning, we’d have taken our capacious backpacks with us to the shop. Unfortunately, this thought only occurred when I was having my arms pulled harshly from their sockets with every rhythmic step, clutching two heavy bags brimming with sustenance. Praying that the bottoms of the bags held true, I adopted a kind of uneven shuffle – the kind that one embraces when in a semi-permanent state of unbalance and in doing so, blended in remarkably with the locals’ gait. Arriving back at the hotel with considerably longer limbs, we arranged our purchases neatly in the lobby and by the time everyone had arrived back from the supermarket, we had acquired a veritable mountain of produce.

The following day came and it was now time to kiss goodbye to the hotel. With our bags finally packed for the trek, we formed a human chain from the hotel reception into the car park and all the way to our waiting bus in order to convey both our bags and food more efficiently. My guidebook indicated that the three-hour journey from Mendoza to the hostel at Puerta del Inca was supposedly a very scenic one. I nabbed a seat at the front of the bus and we set off from the rear entrance of the hotel.

Given that this was a mountaineering expedition and that even our city-softened flesh had no desire for feminine napkins on the hill, we left a small bag of clothes and valuables in secure storage at our hotel. However, no sooner had we departed the dappled leafy streets of suburbia, a member of the group ashamedly informed our guide that he had left his climbing permit in his ‘checked’ luggage. It’s funny how effective the universal language of gesticulation, especially in the context of frustration, can be but it was clear that the driver was not best pleased about returning to the hotel to retrieve the missing document.

Take two of the drive was much more successful! Apart from some ‘wild’ overtaking manoeuvres in which the seat lining very nearly became one with my rear passage, we arrived at the hostel in blistering heat and unpacked the coach. Although it was a hostel, we were fortunate to have our own room and bathroom facilities. The following morning, we loaded up the remainder of our gear, repacked it into two trailers towed by ancient 4x4s, and departed for the trailhead. Minutes later, with permits checked, clean skin and the sun on our faces; we stole one last glance at real civilisation, and set off into the mountains.

~

Epilogue:

Of the 12 or so members of the climbing group, only two made the summit in the end. My companion who I already knew; Alan, and Christian; who has since gone on to other peaks and most recently conquered Pik Lenin in the Pamir range.

Adventure Peaks sent me a feedback form a few weeks after my return to the UK. Unfortunately, I could think of few kind things to say about their logistics and management of the trip, and instead, binned it! On the following trip to Aconcagua that Adventure Peaks ran after ours, a member of the expedition died on the mountain. So far; to my knowledge and research, Adventure Peaks haven’t commented on the circumstances.

After getting off the mountain, I finally found a great steak – in fact, I found several and actually came back to the UK with a greater girth than when I left.

The return journey passed without event really. We had an altercation with another passenger at the Madrid transit, when; on account of urgency, she deemed elbowing as an acceptable way to part our jet-lagged shuffling. We only had about 30 minutes to make our connecting flight and as a consequence, none of our bags arrived at Gatwick but they found their back to my house about four days later covered in Latin American dust. The trip held one last surprise a week after my return. I came to unpack my hand luggage at home and discovered my cutlery set nested in a fleece I’d packed for the journey. I stared in disbelief, wondering how I had made it through four separate airports, three separate flights and 5 independent security checks with a potential weapon in my bag!

I never made the top of Aconcagua. Am I disappointed? Yes. Am I going to loose sleep over it? No. It’ll always be there if I want to return and who knows? Maybe they’ll have showers there someday!

Not unusually, I’m sat here scratching my head at the minute for two reasons. The first being that I was shocked to only learn of the ‘impending’ rapture after it was supposed to have already happened, and secondly, because this must be either the second or third ‘end of the world’ epoch that I’ve survived and it’s getting pretty tiring. In the spirit of the internet, I think it’s only fair that we look at the guy; and indeed the reasoning behind the May 21st scaremongering to see how someone could get it so biblically (pun intended) wrong.

The annals of history are filled with dire predictions of global disasters, the end of the universe and religious raptures, and indeed a few of these events have been championed by characters that even now we respect for their contribution to more useful endeavours. Take the esteemed but eccentric Isaac Newton. Aside from his much celebrated modern theory of calculus and his somewhat obvious declaration that an apple really does hurt if it strikes ones head from a tree, he gave a convincing but notionally vague appraisal that the world would end at some point after 2060. Whilst remembered for his greatness however, Newton actually spent most of his time on more abstract quests. Upon examination of his notes, people were astounded to discover many references to occult religious investigation and the pursuit of turning base metals into valued ones. He additionally got involved with a risky sect that advocated the denial of the holy trinity, which; considering that his alumni heritage was that of Trinity College Cambridge, didn’t do a huge amount for his credibility.

So this brings us on to Harold Egbert Camping (forecaster of the May 21^st rapture). The first thing to note is that it isn’t his first rapture prediction. Alas, most people would be pretty embarrassed getting it wrong the first time; his original prediction was on May 21^st 1988, but he has since predicted September 7^th 1994 and, of course more recently May 21^st of this year. And that’s not even the full picture. Since the coming (and going) of the latest date, he has continued with the tenacity that only someone with a middle name like ‘Egbert’ could muster, and announced with great gusto; and crossed fingers, that the coming of Christ will ‘conclusively’ occur on October 21^st 2011. This is of course, exactly what the apocalyptic fans want to hear. I’d hedge a bet that very few of them actually believe the claimed prophesy or are even religious. In fact, I would be very willing to champion their cause and revel in the apparent hysteria that these predictions cause.

What I find particularly amusing however, is the ‘methodology’; if you can call it that, used to deduce dates for these cataclysmic events. An engineer by trade, Camping really should have known better as the equation he devised to calculate the May 21^st date is; no word of a lie, the following:

(atonement x completeness x heaven)² = 722,500

I have to confess that this is paraphrased. According to Camping, atonement equals 5, completeness equals 10 and heaven is equal to 7. Without wanting to understand, or even care about what rationale was used to deduce the numerical equivalents, I can’t be the only one to be so truly staggered at the attention given to such a poorly founded debasement of history. It’s hard to believe, but it does get worse. Without evidence; and in a moment of enlightenment of which spiritual nutters often distinguish themselves with, the rapture was supposedly going to be pragmatic, in that it would strike at 6pm local time, advancing across time zones every hour. Clearly, the supreme beings in the world have an appreciation of the Gregorian calendar and the International Date Line.

We now have only one more ‘rapture’ to deal with this year in October and no doubt, the excitement will embellish this one too. I hate to say it, but without wanting to stretch credibility; for I already believe this has been done for me, the only thing preventing this one being made into a Michael Bay film is start location outside of Central Park and a time, curiously incompatible with sunset.

Click here to read part 2.

Landing in Madrid, I was staggered at how cold it was. Whilst I had been preparing for the fridged temperatures I was likely to encounter on the mountain, it stupidly hadn’t even occurred to me that southern Europe had a winter. I had nursed myself through Gatwick wearing just a lightweight shirt on the thought that after takeoff, I’d not have to worry about being cold. However, when I was walking across the tarmac in the Spanish capital with nipples so stiff they could score glass, I made a mental note to be more fastidious in my travel attire for the return journey.

We had hoped that the lengthy stop of 10 hours would give us chance to escape the airport and mosey around Madrid but as a result of the delay departing London, we would risk missing our onward flight if we went exploring. On this basis, we limited our excursions to the transit lounge which transpired to be a dingy, airless corridor with a duty free shop and a small café. As everyone knows, airport food outlets have an unrivalled monopoly on innocent travellers, and I usually go to great lengths to avoid lining their pockets. However, being on the road since the early morning and already suffering from light-headedness, I paid over 12 Euros for a sandwich ‘platter’ that looked like it had been spat on by Thor and a drink that must have been bottled directly from the Manzanares river.

Many hours later when we did finally board the onwards flight to Argentina, my fears regarding onboard entertainment were confirmed. The aircraft was old, the legroom; poor, and the cabin crew attractive only to the most advanced beer goggle sufferers. Making my way through the isle, I counted the rows to my seat and found that I had been placed just in front of small children. In fairness to them, they were impeccably behaved but as I parked myself, I couldn’t help but notice how invitingly infant sized they make plane windows! Almost straight after take-off they began to server dinner. No sooner had I finished my compartmentalised gruel, I dived straight into my backpack for the knockout drugs that I had bought the previous week. Sceptical, I scowled at the packet and whilst I lazily considered the lack of immediate medical assistance in the vicinity, I ingested two of the capsules.

To my great delight, the tablets did their work and I woke up just an hour before we were due to land in Buenos Aires; and after another helping of gruel, we touched the tarmac in South America. Resisting my urges to blurt out inappropriate comments to the immigration official, we entered the baggage reclaim hall and were surprised to find that all of our bags had survived the transfer in Madrid unscathed and were rotating around the carousel.

The next step was to arrange our own transfer to the domestic airport to catch our onward flight to Mendoza. As Adventure Peaks had provided no guidance in the matter, we elected their representative to go and arrange this for us. I then parted with $10 and had my bags loaded into a van. This brought to the surface something else I detest. Tipping. My conceived idea of tipping is that it’s optional and should only be given if truly exemplary service has been offered. The culture where gratuity is expected is rapidly growing and trades on the guilt of the customer living up to a predefined agenda. I speak on principle not on experience in this eventuality as in my jet-lagged state, I handed the porter $2 of unnecessary compensation.

Trying to gloss over this, after a short and nervously eccentric drive across the outskirts of the city, we arrived at what was to be our final transit point. Situated by the river, the Aeropark looked very run down and after venturing inside, it was confirmed to be very run down. Imagine a 100 square foot student bedsit. Add over a thousand people, a crackly speaker system and a couple of live chickens running around and you would be approaching the picture. It honestly looked like a scene from Borat and as we fought our way through the masses with our considerably outsized baggage, we wondered if there was any chance of catching our plane. Some sly elbowing ensued to stake our place in the queue line and by muttering some undiplomatic comments about the Falklands war; we ended up monopolising a check-in desk for our travelling circus.

The delay in booking in for our flight meant that we had a rather lively walk straight to the departure gate. In the UK, the security procedures alone would make this impossible – any brisk movement would probably be interpreted as an act of terrorism and necessitate a cavity search so violent that it would be guaranteed to put an abrupt end to any swiftness in bipedal progress for at least the next few days. In Latin America however, they clearly aren’t too bothered about domestic travellers as I found out when I triggered every security alarm known to the airport and was still allowed to proceed with only a casual scowl by a disinterested security official.

I was still reading my Mendoza notes that I had researched as we took off from Buenos Aires and in doing so; I rediscovered something I had found out in preparation for the trip. The airport that we were due to terminate at in Mendoza, was also the unscheduled origin airport of the fateful Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571 which crashed in the Andes, survivors of which resorted to cannibalism and were portrayed in the 2003 film; Alive. With a touch of irony, the only emotion that this realisation stimulated was that of hunger and the rest of the flight passed without excitement.

Having been on the road for a long time and feeling the lethargy that accompanies long haul travel, I think we all breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing the hotel emerge as we rounded a corner on the leafy Latin American street. Encouraged by the thought of a hot shower and a tasty steak, I hauled my bags from the minibus being careful to avoid the gaze of a manipulative porter and made my way into the hotel reception area. The hotel décor hadn’t aged well but compared to the deprivation we would shortly be embarking to, it was a slice of heaven. Waiting in the queue, I noticed two clocks behind the reception desk on the wall. I’ve stayed in hotels before where timepieces proudly display their information in London, Paris and New York but here, one was listed as Mendoza and the other; Chile. I’m not sure if it was irony, but they were both telling the same time – thinking about it, they were a couple of minutes different so maybe that was the joke after all. We were escorted to our room by one of the hotel staff members who didn’t seem too pleased with our bustling arrival.

By this point, we were all so tired and in need of refreshment that I honestly didn’t care. I simply parked my cases, lay down on the bed and contented myself with the thought that at least; unlike our porter, I didn’t have a face that looked like a Crème Egg.

Part 4 is here…

I received a lot of positive feedback from the first post about my climb of Aconcagua. However; be this lucky or not, I had always aimed to write more chapters. The initial instalment covered my time on the mountain, but as a committed cynic, the prequel to the climb including the planning, preparation and the journey yielded some interesting dramas. It was also pointed out to me that in the first passage, I never alluded to the summit successes within our team and the fate of the others I mentioned on the mountain.

~

Ever since I gained the means to indulge a bit in adventure travel, the lure of high peaks became overwhelming. I loved the mystique, the harrowing stories of expeditions to undiscovered masses and the entertaining narrative of conquering such a pure summit. Kilimanjaro was first on my list as an ‘introduction’ to the experience of high altitude treks and with its established tourism infrastructure, I opted to loose my foreign trekking virginity with this peak.

After Kilimanjaro, I was eager to broaden my experiences and look for higher and tougher peaks. This is how I came across Aconcagua. Being the tallest peak in South America, it makes it into the list of the continental seven summits; that is, the tallest mountain on each continent. Being part of this coveted seven means that a certain level of industry has been developed around guiding the mountain and as someone whose technical skills were not worthy of an independent trip, it seemed like a good option. Lots of people will be familiar with the dangers of mountain tourism. It was monetary desire and inexperience that contributed to the 1996 tragedy on Mount Everest, immortalised in Jon Krakauer’s great book; Into Thin Air. However, despite the lessons learned by this event, money still talks louder, and getting an objective benchmark of ‘difficulty’ from travel operators was a hard ask. I found a disheartening disparity between the advice of the mountaineering community and travel company representatives.

I settled on a UK company based in the Lake District called Adventure Peaks. When comparing operators, they appeared to offer the best overall package taking into account that their price included the round trip flights as well. Myself and the person I was travelling with, took a trip up to see them in Ambleside with the intension of also fitting in some decent length hikes. We were initially impressed with the level of knowledge from their staff but regrettably, this marked the high point in their service and it deteriorated steadily going forward.

The first problem with Adventure Peaks came with when I first booked the trip. I had done my research and the advertised price from them was £3095. As they were the most competitive price, I phoned up and placed a £400 deposit to confirm the booking. It was only the following day when my invoice turned up in the post, that I realised that the total amount listed on the invoice was £3250. As this booking and deposit was arranged in the summer, I didn’t dispute this increase as I assumed it was a clerical error on their website; which incidentally looked like a primary school project, and I had plenty of time to come up with additional funds. Unfortunately, in the interim period between booking the trip and departing the country, Adventure Peaks amazingly; and incredulously, managed to royally mess up a hire order for my friend (three times), burden every client with a bill for additional permit charges due to their own short sightedness, and then refuse to answer reasonable questions that stemmed from the shock of receiving this news.

Along with the news of additional charges, Adventure Peaks also included my flight itinerary. It’s at this point that most people become excited about an upcoming departure, but after reviewing our flights, the feeling wasn’t positive. From what I can only assume was another cost cutting exercise, Adventure Peaks had managed to incorporate three flights with a poor airline and necessitated an airport change in the world’s forth most populous metropolis (at our own expense I hasten to add). With the prospect of a tour that would see us in London, Madrid, Buenos Aires and Mendoza, I thought it best to investigate the idea of sleeping tablets for the long flights. Cue a visit to the local chemist and a conversation that amounted to the following:

“Hello, I’d like something that will keep me unconscious for at least 8 hours. What do you recommend?”

“We have some of this but I’m not sure we can give it out without a prescription.”

“Well is it going to kill me if you’re wrong? Only, I’ve got a mountain to climb and I’d be disappointed to miss Christmas.”

Shortly afterwards, I was merrily walking down the local high street, cheerfully content with a bag full of exotic sounding chemicals and a new found confidence in my persuasive abilities.

With departure imminent, and the prospect of climbing Aconcagua seeming somehow much more real, packing was the order of the week… But only after yet another dose of bad management from Adventure Peaks. I received a phone call saying that due to the amount of money they were ‘bringing into the country’, it would have to be divvied up between the clients. I wasn’t expecting to meet the mules until we arrived in Argentina but evidently, they now allow them on planes!

As I was leaving the UK in the middle of winter and the fact that I live quite a distance from the departure point at Gatwick airport, I opted to travel down to London the previous afternoon and spend the night in a Travelodge in order to minimise the hassle that comes with the uncertainty of clock chasing on the motorway.

It’s unlikely, I know, but if anyone from Travelodge is reading, I’d love them to act upon the following critique. I’ve stayed in quite a lot of your hotels in the last year but have yet to establish a single unifying attribute other than the stony faced insubordinate sitting behind the reception desk. Fortunately I sidestepped this on this occasion and received marginally better service from a touch screen monitor. The room layouts are often clumsy, the showers only luke-warm and recently, they appear to have removed the subtly appeasing array of tea and coffee sachets which denies people like me the pleasure of craftily pinching them. The worst problem however, is the placement of light switches. Only in a Travelodge will you find that an innocent late night trip to the toilet will result in many painful collisions with unyielding edifices, perhaps due to the similarity of trying to switch on the light, with an excitable game of bob-it extreme. I’d also question their insistence to pull the bed sheets so taught that a casual brush past them produces an audible tone. It’s not inviting and always leads me to believe that the former occupant was restrained to the bed.

On arrival at Gatwick airport the following morning, the local weather didn’t add much confidence in our departure. Snow was set to close in around about the time of our flight, and cold weather in Britain does for airports what Chernobyl did for the city of Pripyat. Trying to put this out of my mind, I left the car park and proceeded towards the terminal building. It was then that I found out that the airport was in the middle of being refurbished and all of the walkways were contained by plywood dividers adorned with sun-kissed artists’ impressions of resulting regeneration. These pictures irritatingly stretch the bounds of creative license with their smiling portraits and Mediterranean skies. On this occasion, someone clearly agreed with me and injected their own impression in the form of a spray painted cartoon which looked like a businessman being sodomised by a Learjet – a far more accurate depiction of the modern day airport I thought.

I pushed my well laden luggage trolley through the entrance concourse in the general direction of the check-in desks. Our instructions from Adventure Peaks required us to congregate near the Air Europa area and wait to be joined by one of our English guides. Over the next hour, all of the other people on the trip arrived and it wasn’t long before a mountain of luggage had developed around us. Not entirely unexpectedly, our Adventure Peaks guide arrived 40 minutes later than he should have done and we began to share the group equipment between the expedition members.

Before long, we were checking in. We’d been informed that our baggage would be checked through directly to Buenos Aires so that we wouldn’t be burdened with them during our transit time in Madrid. If there is ever a group of people not to upset; or even joke with, it’s airport personnel. I always have to exercise remarkable control when being asked if I sympathise with any extremist groups or if I’ve packed the bag myself. Watching re-runs of Airport on the television has lead me to believe that witty answers in this circumstance will just result in you being placed on the no-fly list and a full body cavity search for good measure.

The departure board was already showing a 40 minute delay for the flight already so we decided to set up base in the Café Rouge restaurant to wait for the duration. Don’t get me wrong; after all, I do like most of the food they sell, but why do they insist on giving their meals; titles written in French, but then put the descriptions in English? I’m not arrogant enough to think that the whole menu should be transcribed in English, but by splicing the two, it’s as though their trying to patronise their patrons with the subtext; you Anglo fool. I’ve never thought that the ordering process is very inviting either. You spend 5 or 10 minutes browsing the bastardised menu and rehearsing the title in your best French dialect, only for the waiter to glide over on a wave of pomp and circumstance and sarcastically correct your pronunciation with a wry smile. I reserve a special kind of hatred for these people. Not that I’d want them to disappear completely of course, but I very much doubt I’d shed a tear if their house burnt down.

After a few last minute farewell calls, the crackly announcement signalled that it was time to venture to the gate. Stealing a glace out of the window, the cloud coverage looked threatening and it was clear that the snow was definitely on the way. I took a seat on the new-age chairs; that you only ever seem to find in airports, and proceeded to observe the impatience of a select few travellers who insisted on collaring the airline staff every two minutes for a more precise boarding time. It wasn’t long however before I felt inclined to join them as minute by minute, our departure time was slipping. When we finally did board, we had been waiting for over two hours and discovered that the publicised cause of the delay was a short sighted member of ground staff who clearly couldn’t line up the walkway with the aircraft door. I’m paraphrasing here.

Taking my window seat on the plane, I glanced out across the tarmac to see the first few flakes on snow flutter down from the grey expanse above. I was relieved to find that passengers in the immediate vicinity were neither screaming infants or elderly cripples with small bladders. After a duration sat stationary on the airfield and having exhausting my reading of the various propaganda plastered on the interior of the fuselage, I was startled to see a face appear outside of the window! Further alarmed inspection and accompanying friendly announcement revealed that they were in the process of de-icing the wings. No sooner had the tannoy quietened when I saw the moveable platform of the de-icer lightly strike the aileron. Trying in vain to forget what I’d just seen, I settled into my book and before long we were thundering down the runway and on our way to the Americas.

Click here to read part 3.

With the rest of the world in revolt over much more instrumental disadvantages, there has been little coverage of anything else in the media. One such organisation that is probably glad of this convenient diversion is Ofcom because, in their infinite wisdom as the regulating body for UK communication industries, they have decreed that soon, commercial television channels will be able to broadcast up to 12 minutes of adverts in program breaks.

Quoting from Ofcom’s website, they state that their role is to “make sure that the people in the UK get the best from their communication services”. Personally I struggle to see how they can uphold this commitment by interrupting you from your immersive drama by a fat Welshman screaming a frustratingly addictive warble when all you really want to do is force him into a gazelle suit and lock the dullard in a game reserve. In truth, if you read into the details of their plans, it states that they can show up to 12 minutes of ads in every hour of broadcast content. However, this is still nearly double the amount was previously allowed.

The issue is further exacerbated by the poor quality of adverts that thrust themselves upon us. They wouldn’t be as tedious if they were even remotely clever or interesting. Such good example of adverts are the Honda Accord Cog advert:

Or how about the original advert for the Sony Bravia technology? That one was truly exemplary in it’s cinematography:

To further frustrate viewers, this initiative will be implemented on the same day as the new product placement rules, which allow broadcasters to accept payments from advertisers and companies in exchange for subtly featuring their products on screen. From my own research into the matter, this action has all come about to put us more inline with the trends in America. This is even more worrying as every time I’ve watched the box in the US, it has always been tricky to differentiate between the adverts and the actual content. Although this probably says as much about the content as it does about the adverts, I’d hate to see British entertainment follow suit.

However, being England, product placement; which you’d be excused for thinking is a simple concept, has some strings attached. Product placement cannot happen in News programs, children’s programs, or feature alcohol and products of an unhealthy lineage. It’s true that irony triumphed recently when we sent a frigate named after a sausage to rescue our fellow citizens from a Muslim populous in Libya, but the half-hearted effort to protect viewers from making conscious decisions about their diet implies a deep routed concern about modern humanity from the broadcasting nanny.

Following this ruling, my own personal viewing will be almost exclusively content from the BBC. What I fear now however, is that in an attempt to compete, quality of programming across the board will be lowered. The iPlayer might as well change their slogan from ‘making the unmissable, unmissable’ to ‘making the unwatchable, unavoidable!’

Firstly I’d like apologise for the hiatus over the festive period. The reason for this has little to do with lackluster levels of concentration or the endless pursuit of the shiny bottom in the Roses tin. Unbeknownst to a lot of my online readers, I’ve been away climbing mountains in Argentina, and in an effort to minimise the risk of my rabbit being boiled by some of my more motivated stalkers, I neglected to broadcast my absence. Whilst it’s a deviation from my normal commentary, I’d invite you have a read of the journal that I kept while I was climbing the highest mountain in the Americas; Aconcagua.

1. In the beginning…
2. Carry on… Up the Vacas
3. Base, sweet base
4. Luggage reunited
5. Rolling Stones gather much respect
6. All rest and little play makes for a dull team
7. Snow fun
8. Team Vs the Machine
9. Snow bored
10. The end of the road…

1. In the beginning… – 21/12/2010
Trailhead to Pampa de Lenas

Purta de Vacas

Despite the festivities of Christmas very much taking a back seat for the duration of this trip, it did not mean that we were excluded from the child-like excitement on the short drive from Purta del Inca to the trailhead at Purta de Vacas.

As a group, we were all itching to begin our adventure after the meticulous preparations in Mendoza. Food had been purchased and prepared, loads had been packed, and our main loads had been checked on to mules – hopefully to begin their anonymous and oddly illusive journey to base camp.

After resigning myself to being as anal as a tenor lady salesman, I had spent a chunk of the previous night reading up about the days trek. I quote from the book… “a leisurely days trekking, light loads and picturesque scenery.” Being a big fan of the book in question, I do not wish to critique it too harshly. However, let me tell you a few home truths about trekking if you’ve been off the scene for a duration like myself.

It’s hot, do dusty that you get a very applied comprehension of what it must feel like to be a chain smoker, it’s monotonous and; in our case, guided by someone whose overtly buoyant personality grates on you without want or a justifiable reason why.

Discomforts aside; which I believe were more substantial for others than myself, being in the heart of the Andes was an experience to cherish… at least until a couple of weeks later when we were to be found cursing their lofty insolence.

Carry on… Up the Vacas – 22/12/2010
Pampa de Lenas to Casa de Piedra

By this point, it has become apparent that we had a number of comedians within our group. Before this becomes a cynical observation, I meant it as a positive thing. It lightens the mood and this is an indispensable commodity in such a hostile environment. From chatting with other group members, it seems as though we’ve been very lucky in that everyone seemed to initially gel well together.

Shortly after setting off, we had to cross a bridge over the Vacas river. Being at the front of the group, I was disappointed to find that I missed the hysteria of some of the other members as they tentatively crossed behind me. I admit that Brunel would have been embarrassed if he’d have had his hand in it, but it’s entertaining to envisage adults; quaking with trepidation, at the thought of crossing a 7ft high gang plank over a stream that’s lack of conveyance meant that it had the approximate viscosity of yogurt.

This days trek was being lead by one of our more reserved guides. Without wanting to say anything negative about him; after all he was a great guy, he hadn’t climbed, let along guided Aconcagua before. I wouldn’t say that it worried me – after all, it takes a special kind of idiot to get lost in a valley, but his initial pace implied an exaggerated confidence in his direction which could potentially have developed into a bad president.

Case de Piedra

Upon arriving at Casa de Piedra in the late afternoon, spirits were high as we had been privy to our first views of the heap we had come to conquer.

We were hiking into base camp on the same schedule as another group which we’d christened ‘Team America’ on account of their geographical origin, ego and; come to think of it, their appearance also. The reason that I mention them at this point, is because after setting off at such an ambitious pace in the morning, they arrived at Casa de Piedra before us and in an effort to assert their presence, had used a disproportionately large part of the campsite for their tents.

On account of this, Anglo American relations were tested as we politely (read Britishly) kept our complaints introverted and pitched our own shelters on the outer boundaries.

Our evening meal did little to repair the severance between our American cousins. They were seated at a table adjacent to us and their manor of conversation showed an unreasonable amount of aggression towards an inanimate mountain. Personally, I was more concerned about what noise the creature; that was now sat exuberantly on my plate, made in it’s more lively state, but as I understood, their attitude really grated on a number of people.

Base, sweet base – 23/12/2010
Casa de Piedra to Plaza Argentina

Today it became clear why my guidebook had described the trekking thus far as ‘leisurely’. Despite my unconditional longing for exaggerated height gain, days one and two only elevated us a modest 400m each in turn, and today would advance us further than the collective altitude so far with an additional 1,000m.

Crossing the Vacas River

The day started with a river crossing which; although the river level was low, still necessitated wading through knee-deep glacial melt-water. Being one of the first to cross, whilst I was massaging my feet in an effort to restore some of their former feeling, I got the interesting vantage of examining people’s facial contortions as they traversed the frigid water. The expressions were all very varied but all managed to convey the cry and disbelief that they had all paid over £3,000 for the experience of numb feet!

The day hike started by advancing up the Relinchos valley. The first part is littered with eroded paths, steep hills and precipitous drops which was a fresh and welcome change from the monotony of the previous two days.

Early on, it became clear that there were a number of divisions forming within the group; simply because our paces seldom matched. As the trip was still in it’s infancy, those at the front felt compelled to wait for the more lumbering members at the back to catch up periodically. It was at one such hesitation that one of the members of ‘team-America’ slowly trudged past us. Clearly not being content with his ‘step to vocal’ ratio, the man that we’d nicknamed ‘Pork Chop’ on account of his misplaced girth, offered us the puzzling analogy of a war in 1812 in which the British “stopped to soon”. After several of these chants throughout the early morning, I eventually retorted back paradoxically with, “remember the Vietnam war, you stayed to long.” I couldn’t quite figure out the gaze I received in reply, but it came from eyes of chipped granite and he neglected his chant henceforth.

Plaza Argentina - Base Camp

The base camp; Plaza Argentina, remains out of sight on a rocky plateau and only reveals itself  once you have ascended a final acute gradient. The altitude of the camp is at 4,200m (which for a brief comparison is similar in height to the lofty areas of the Alps) and the significant relative gain in height is enough to encourage the onset of high altitude illness amongst us sea level dwelling mortals.

As it transpired, I was suffering no ill effects with the possible exception of extensive breathlessness on exertion. Our base camp host; Daniel Lopez, welcomed us all with infant’s party food and coco tea which is supposed to aid altitude acclimatisation. Evidently this disagreed dramatically with a couple of people in the group, as shortly after ingestion, it reappeared in all its technocolour glory. Such a display in England, wouldn’t results in many repeat invitations to dine in one’s company, so it’s a testament to Argentinian resolve that hospitality at height is never overlooked.

Luggage reunited – 24/12/2010
Plaza Argentina

As per our schedule, today involved having a day of rest in order to build up our strength and facilitate with acclimatisation.

Calling it a rest day however, is a bit of a misnomer. Admittedly, we breakfasted late at 8:30 but as with anything on the mountain, its very much a relative concept – some people I know, are rarely even conscious at that time!

The most pleasing thing was being reacquainted with our kit bags that we had last seen back in Purta del Inca. I do not with to speak bad of Argentine logistical efforts, but I breathed a sigh of relief when I observed my equipment was undamaged. Judging by the smorgasbord of different abrasions and host of flora detritus on the bag, the fact that it’s contents were intact was a real high point.

The same could not be said for other items that had been ferried in on muel-back however. Pringles in particular seemed to have been the biggest casualty; their traditional parabolic shape having been forcefully morphed into hydrogenated confetti. Following this tragic loss, any items that didn’t survive the trek in, were subsequently described as ‘muled’.

The rest of the day was split between sorting out our provisions for our first load carry to camp 1, and engaging in an unwilling game of high altitude hide-and-seek with Pork Chop as I feared he may have just worked out my Vietnam comment.

Due to a certain circumstantial deprivation and the abrupt realisation that it was Christmas Eve, we were informed that a party was planned for the eveing. Whether ‘party’ has a more subtle definition in South America I don’t know, but if their idea of a party is a hot chocolate and bed before 9, then boy did we party hard! Perhaps we should have said carnival instead.

Rolling stones gather much respect – 25/12/2010
Plaza Argentina to Camp 1

Christmas at 4200m

After the quasi-indulgence of a lay-in the previous morning, today was an abrupt return the reality of our adventure and the plan today was to carry our food, commodities and stoves to camp 1. Critically, we had to carry enough food to stock both camps 1 and 2.

One member of the group had thoughtfully come equipped with a luggage scale so that each tent team could be evenly weighted. Initially, I was unsure about its utility, but after loading my pack and attempting to throw it over my shoulder with a manly bravado, only to yield feebly like Lembit Opik in an election rally, it didn’t take much persuasion to see it’s merits.

Before we set off, Chris; our main guide, gave us a spiel about what we could expect on the days’ hike. He particularly stressed the risk of rock falls down the scree slope and advised us not to use MP3 players. The latter advice was not really applicable to myself as I had absconded from using my iPod on the mountain itself. However, the instructions on what to do in the event of a rock fall did grab my attention – but perhaps not for the right reasons.

The advice was that if someone spots or dislodged substantial rocks; which is difficult to avoid on a scree field, they’re supposed to bellow “Rocks” to inform climbers in their fall line. However, the advice to the unwilling potential target is not to scout for the impending missile, but to turn your back to the slope and hope that it doesn’t strike you. I can see the psychological merit in not seeing your imminent doom, but at the same time, I can’t help feeling that this advice was clearly dictated by someone sitting comfortably behind a desk at the time of it’s inception.

So as we began our trek to camp 1 carrying a rucksack to the tune of 20kg, Chris set the rhythm at a pace difficult to differentiate from that of a funeral precession. It soon became clear why it was such however. The route along increasingly steep scree fields whose insubordination was two fold. Every step taken had the effect of unsettling your already top-heavy frame so that you soon took up a ‘ballet’ akin to a spaniel on a polished floor, and secondly, in the mid-day sunlight, the mountain never hesitated to remind you that you were walking on a glacier by lubricating your soles and opening up in large fishers. All of this action; bear in mind, had to be completed in double plastic mountaineering boots which may well keep your feet toasty, but at the expense of comfort and dexterity – giving you a gait similar to that of John Wayne on a squash court.

Camp 1

It was then, of some relief when we arrived at camp 1 and made our cache. As the weather was good, I decided to have a sit down and relish in the thought of how light my pack would be on the decent. Suddenly I remembered that it was Christmas day and that my girlfriend had given me a letter that was supposed to be opened on this day. Thinking ahead, I had slipped it into my rucksack in the morning and I took delight in reading it at 5,000m.

After indulging at new lofty heights for as long as I could stand in sunlight – I very quickly take on the tactile complexion of a cooked pizza is left exposed for too long, I; along with three others including Chris, began our decent.

Soon after commuting myself to the ‘yield-so-easy’ scree slope, I heard the inevitable and fortuitous cry of “Rocks!” from a teammate on the slope above. Employing my own devised tactic of stealing a glance to see where the said projectile had originated, I was alarmed to discover a head-sized stone, decimating a path straight in my direction. Just as the rock bounced into one of its more expansive downward orbits, I defaulted to the given advice, turning my back, bracing myself and contemplating the irony if I were to be struck dead by a rock diminutive in mass to the Andean giant I had hoped to climb. Alas, the rock continued unrelentingly on the same vector, and within a few tense moments, struck my right ankle with sufficient force to involuntarily kick out my leg, sending a shower of gravel on a spirited decent to the valley floor. As luck would have it, the stone struck me in the best possible place, the boots that I’d cursed to enthusiastically earlier.

Content with the adrenalin I had experienced so far in the day, I made it back to base camp without further issue. It became apparent however, that the youngest member of our expedition was not well at all and was rushed to see the base camp doctor. The diagnosis was high altitude cerebral edema (HACE – swelling of the brain), severe enough to warrant immediate decent by means of the park’s helicopter. As he was only 16 and traveling with his step-father, some diplomacy ensued so that his step-father could accompany him in the helicopter down to Mendoza.

A somber end to Christmas day – our group of 16 were down to 14.

All rest and little play makes for a dull team – 26/12/2010
Plaza Argentina

Today, our schedule called for another rest day at base camp. Whilst we were initially please by this thought, after a few hours with very little to do, we were almost longing to advance further up the mountain.

As I covered in a previous passage, rest days can usually be filled by preparing loads for the day hence. However, when you are preparing to move between camps, a lot of the equipment is otherwise engaged , leaving you a limited window in the morning to pack.

After exhausting the clock over breakfast as much as we dared, the immediate conundrum to solve was a tedious condition that I’d christened HABE – high altitude boredom edema. Characteristics include restlessness, lethargy and an emotional swelling which has the cruel and disturbing virtue of making Jack Nicholson style axe rampages seem like an appropriate way to alleviate the tedium.

Fortunately, no one amongst our team fell fowl of the latter symptom, and instead, one group member produced a pack of playing cards and after rallying a few HABE sufferers, we were soon enjoying a vocal game of Pontoon.

I should explain at this point, that I am the world’s most appalling card player. Many a time when trying to play poker, I have elatedly announced that I have a hand comprising entirely of red cards, only to be met by the perplexed expressions of my opponents and the dawning realisation that perhaps its not as good a hand as I had convinced myself it was. Regardless, we continues our game with a deck comprising of a suspiciously voluminous quantity of aces, and happily passed the time until dinner.

Snow fun – 27/12/2010
Plaza Argentina to Camp 1

On the way to Camp 1

The previous evening we had been subject to a small snow flurry which initially put us in high spirits as it would hopefully have added a dimension of security to the formidable scree slope. However, today also meant that we left the relative comforts of our logistics provider at base camp and set off for the high camps proper. With this in mind; and not wishing to chew the lip of hindsight, I went for one final and indulgent shit in what was rapidly becoming the ‘not so long’ drop.

During our morning briefing from Chris, we were also informed of some terrible news. On our decent from camp 1 back to base camp a few days earlier, we had seen four people high on the Polish Glacier quite late in the afternoon. I guess the exact story will forever be lost, but the team ran into difficulty and during the night one of their members died from exposure. The other three made it down to camp 2 but another in their number passed away during the night. By all accounts, this team comprised of experienced mountaineers which made the situation all the more shocking. The main reason Chris had chosen to share the information with us at this stage, was because apparently it was very likely that we would see the bodies being ferried down the mountain today as we made our ascent. This proved to be correct.

I was also dismayed to discover that my pack; which I assumed would be lighter, in fact weighed in considerably more at about 26kg. Accompanied by the thoughts that on this upward trip the group had diminished by two, it was a decidedly reserved departure from base camp.

I liked to think that I had learnt a sufficient number of lessons from my time on Kilimanjaro with regards to efficiency, which would have put me in good stead for this trip. In the most part this was successful. For this trip I had brought along my CamelBak which is a rubber bladder, capable of holding 3 liters of water, which can be drawn upon when walking by means of a tube and an ingenious bite valve. However, when I first wished to take advantage of my hands free hydration system, I realised angrily that due to the improbable bulk of my rucksack, the tube remained tantalisingly out of reach and any futile efforts to benefit from the live-giving nectar, resulted in looking like Stephen Hawking trying to swat a wasp. I therefore resigned myself to having to drink on the defined rest stops and stifle my thirst in between.

When nearing camp 1, the wind began to pick up and before long, snow had begun to fall. It must be stressed that mountain snow is not like traditional snow however. Whereas our precip we get at home is made of beautifully geometric, clearly delineated jewels, the snow we were experiencing was that of ice pellets whose wanton desire; when whipped by the wind, was to intravenously drain all of the colour from any flesh, foolishly exposed to its wrath.

Already in a miserable mood on arrival at camp, we then had to the task of erecting our tent. Having picked a tent at random from the stash that we had at base camp, I had neglected to notice that it’s lineage was not the same as we’d become accustomed to on the walk in. On account of this, constructing the shelter in copious amounts of wind and mountain snow with unfathomable instructions, made for a lot of frayed tempers and general falling out. I’d personally like to name and shame Mountain Hardwear for devising a tent so obtuse in its ability to provide shelter, it would make Ed Viesturs blush.

Following the Benny Hill-like efforts of tent erection, all we had left to enjoy were some freeze dried meals. Perhaps my expectations were too high, but I had a re-hydrated chicken tika masala which; had it not been for the large friendly letters on the packet, could have easily been mistaken for the extracts of sulphurous rocks back at Purta del Inca.

Team Vs the Machine – 28/12/2010
Camp 1 to Camp 2

On the way to camp 2

Logic would have stated that after the exertion of the previous day, it would be a rest day today. Thankfully for us HABE sufferers, it was not the case and today called for a load carry up to camp 2 at 5850m. This is just shy of the height of Kilimanjaro and keen students of numeracy will not that the height gain from camp 1 is 850m.

Morning broke and with it, so did my digestive system at the thought of freeze dried muesli. Depending on your perspective, I wasn’t disappointed. It has the consistency of the dryer parts of the Vacas river and the smell of the proctology wing at a city general hospital.

It did however, have the positive consequence of keeping my bowel movements regular. Sorry for this brief but relevant detour… Now that we were higher on the mountain, we no longer had the ‘luxury’ of long-drop toilets. Furthermore, the Aconcagua park authorities now issue climbers with a bag in which to deposit your expulsions in an effort to control pollution on the mountain from human waste. Unless you have been through the indignity yourself, its impossible to imaging the level of concentration required to keep your balance when squatting. A momentary lapse in the backwards direction could result in a tumble into your freshly produced output, whilst a forwards lurch risks a painful and embarrassing face-plant on account of your hands being otherwise occupied in an effort to warn off the effects of genital frostbite. Anyway, I digress…

The hike from camp 1 to 2 is an arduous one. What differentiated it from other days however, was that we all took it at our own pace, commanded our own break intervals and reached the goal in our own time. Max; our other guide, shot off from camp 1 in an almost mechanised romp, so unrelenting, that no one else could match his pace. Initially I was behind Max but I was then overtaken by another strong member in our group, to remain for the rest of the day.

View from camp 2

This was the day where I learned a another truth from the hills. Never, and I mean never, believe any form of timescales given by people descending the route you are so desperately climbing. Not only will they be wildly inaccurate, but they’ll often be doctored in an effort to raise your spirits. This may be effective in the short term, but as time passes, you can’t help but think how good your ice axe would look embedded in the do-gooder’s head.

In the end, I was third to reach camp 2. By this point in the afternoon, the weather had begun to close in so we wasted little time in making our cache and retreating down to camp 1. On the decent, we ended up passing other members of the group, still on the way up. I was annoyed to find myself giving timescales to my upward bound friends in direct contrast to my own preachings earlier.

Snow bored – 29/12/2010
Camp 1

Snow at camp 1

Bad news for all HABE sufferers today as its another rest day but one further complicated by limited camp facilities and the 2ft accumulation of snow on the ground that was to increase consistently throughout the day. As a result of the snow, we were confined to our tents for the majority of the day and although I had cursed its awkwardness to construct, it’s internal dimensions seemed to reconcile some of its respect.

It’s just as well that the tent was spacious as you had to don double plastic boots , sunglasses, hat, gloves and all manor of warm clothing in order to perform the most basic of ablutions. When going to urinate, it had to be precisely timed so that the wind didn’t interfere with the direction of flow. Failure to respect this trait at best would result in a vortex of fluid that cascaded dangerously close to ones trousers whilst the more serious of consequences would invite ridicule and a pair of unpleasantly damp salopettes.

The day was spent eating, reading and trying not annoy each other in the tent until we were all summoned by Chris and Max for a discussion. They had been on the phone with our travel company in England, who; in turn, had replied with devastating news regarding the weather. The snow was forecast to worsen and the wind was set to rise. The immediate plan was to re–evaluate the situation in the morning.

The end of the road – 30/12/2010
Camp 1 to Plaza Argentina

Descending from camp 1

During the restless night in which we endured more snow and abundant wind, I was unfortunate enough to be revisited by an old enemy – stomach cramps. Having not been struck with these pains for the best part of three years, and being woefully ignorant of the choice drug which helped alleviate the symptoms, I had much to ponder during my sleepless night.

After some light hypoxic consideration, I decided that the best solution would be to descend in the morning as I had no chance of attaining camp 2 in my state, and wait at base camp for the rest of the team so as not to be a liability higher on the mountain. Chris accompanied me back down to base camp, stopping briefly at the doctor’s cabin to gain assurances that it wasn’t altitude related.

So as I retired to my tent adopting the fetal position, the realisation hit me that I had unfortunately failed to conquer the mountain. On my reflection, it was disappointing, but I remain convinced that it was the correct decision to turn around. From what I can remember, the usual course of treatment for my ailment, is to let it run its course and normally I would recover naturally in three days or so. However, I had a visitor to my tent in the afternoon that strongly encouraged me to visit the doctor.

The cheery visitor was a sweet member of the guardeparque (park rangers) by the name of Erika who had taken it upon herself to oversee my ‘treatment’. I can’t fault the guardeparque one bit, but I am not very good at being a patient, and protested feebly that I wasn’t sick enough to warrant specific medical attention. I like to think that the kind Erika was ignoring my complaints, but it transpired that she didn’t speak much English and thus, my moans were evidently lost in translation.

The doctor; whose name now escapes me, performed the usual battery of tests commonplace at altitude before quizzing me on my symptoms in fluent ‘Spanglish’. Trying to convey stomach cramps by means of gesticulation and onomatopoeia however, proved tricky, and it was only when I discovered that the work ‘spasm’ was relatively uniform in both English and Spanish, that we made progress.

Its then that I discover that he decides the best course of treatment is an injection of a pain killer. Torn between the risks of having intravenous drugs administered in questionable hygienic conditions, and wanting to get my monies worth from the exorbitant permit fee, I opted to have a shot injected into my left bum cheek making a mental note to learn more Spanish before my next venture to South America.

Being British, I of course thanked him profusely for jabbing me in such intimate proximity, and promptly made my way back to the tent. After sitting down, it was then that I noticed an alarming arrhythmia emanating from my chest. Being the ‘sunshine and moonbeams’ type of personality that I am, I convinced myself that I was having a heart attack and before unconsciousness ensued, I frantically attempted to unzip my tent-fly. In those lively few moments however, my heartbeat returned to normal and I offered a frankly apologetic smile to the foreign figures that had paused by my tent in curiosity at the animated antics inside.

Click here for part 2 of ‘The Lost Continent, a Pessimist Abroad – Travels in South America’.

As I sit here writing this post, I really hope that we are on the cusp of change. Work is well underway to derail the X-Factor ‘talent’ show, Gillian McKeith has; in direct contrast to her own preaching, proved that you are what you eat, and Anne Widdecombe has demonstrated repeatedly that opinion polls can be caressed, simply by being winched around a television studio dressed as a Quality Street.

Without wanting to give them more analysis than they deserve, I think that these shows stretch the definition of ‘talent’ and ‘celebrity’ to the extent of making it unduly difficult for fresh and determined new acts to break into the arena. From the events recently in which poor acts have been exhausted, I’d like to think that a proportion of public agrees with me. However, given the fact that they’ve been watching the programmes in the first place, it would imply a commitment to vegetative state that I’m not entirely ready for yet. I’m sure that, given time and a sufficient number of hallucinogens, entertainment value might be extracted, but I dearly hope that my close acquaintances will prescribe me a one-way ticket to the hominid equivalent of the glue factory when the time arises.

Take the most popular of the bunch; the X-Factor. The protagonist; Simon Cowell, stated recently that the ongoing campaign to deny the show’s winner the number one chart slot for Christmas, was the second deliberate attempt to ‘derail’ the show – the first being the Rage Against the Machine song that triumphed in 2009. Most people would probably take this as a hint that the show has perhaps had its day, but his explanation seemed to imply that it was in fact the public that were out of touch with modern trends! Given that all this is coming from a man who is in danger of having to file a flight plan when he pulls his waistline up in the morning, I’d advise reflection on who is really out of touch.

Aside from this, the most recent series has been littered with controversy – some of it has been understandable. It transpired that one of the contestants was living in the UK illegally and she was immorally hoping that her glimmer of talent would be enough to persuade the foreign office to halt her deportation. What amused me more however, was that a popular contestant by the name of Wagner had been apparently claiming incapacity benefits whilst enthusiastically gallivanting around on stage. To capitalise on the irony, the British tabloid newspapers were on this story quicker than Kerry Katona in a scratch card queue but I would be the first to leap to his defence. After all, surely competing in the X-Factor is a very prudent display of incapacity.

Another program that hopefully on the way out is ‘I’m a celebrity, get me out of here’. Fortunately for the rest of the world, this doesn’t seem to have been exported from the inner workings of ITV and normally, I’d take solace in the fact that the ‘stars’ (I use the term very loosely) are conveniently on the other side of the planet. All eyes this series however, have been on Gillian McKeith; or to use her full medical title, ‘Gillian McKeith’. For foreign readers, Ms McKeith is a self-proclaimed; but entirely false, nutritionist with a fake doctorate and an unhealthy obsession with the intimate analysis of human excrement. Quite why she volunteered to prance around an Australian jungle where Linda McCartney products have done little to penetrate the market is unfathomable, but what is clear, is that she spent her time recursively fainting and sporting a look like a squashed Morph.

The recurring theme with these programs is that they all have run for an uncomfortably large number of series. It seems that television companies hit on the idea of a popular program, and then exhaust it of all its profitability, leaving quality as a distant vector. In the case of ITV; for which the former two shows I’ve talked about are hosted on, I can entertain it to a degree, as their balance books are more fragile than England’s world cup bid, but I find it very distasteful when it comes from the BBC.

Strictly Come Dancing (or Dancing with the Stars – US version) is the BBC’s answer to the commercial rivals and features a host of ‘has-been’ celebrities partnered with professional dancers in a bit to beat their competitors. The show started innocently enough, but like it’s rivals, it has deteriorated in the last two runs. Firstly because of John Sergeant’s attempt at dancing, which was more akin to him dodging projectiles in his more natural broadcasting territory, and secondly because of Anne Widdecombe MP not respecting her age. What topped it off for me though, was when I heard that the lead judge; Len Goodman, was going to present his own late night radio show on the subject of dancing. I believe full kudos should go to the visionary that decided to port dancing to the radio but the Beeb is straining it’s credibility here.

What I fear most is that with Christmas on the doorstep, it’s only going to worsen. Festive television used to be critically acclaimed and historically has been the anonymous mediator; defusing family tensions for years. Now, it’s as quaint as a burning bush and will probably keep you warmer! Merry Christmas.

I guess that everyone at some point has had some sort of righteous outpouring of emotive dictation. It might be triggered by a debate on a particularly controversial issue or by an excess of the amber nectar, but either way, on reflection most people eventually regain a hold on reality. Previously, I’ve described my political stance as standing just right of Genghis Kahn and thus, some of my opinions extend beyond the realm of drunken tirades, but even my ideas have been eclipsed by the efforts of a plump woman from North Carolina.

The woman in question is called Barbara Harris and for those that haven’t already heard of her, she has founded a charity called Project Prevention. Clearly trying to capitalise on a warm and fuzzy sounding name, their contribution to social order is to bribe drug addicts into being chemically or physically sterilised to prevent them frivolously passing on their genetic material. Admittedly it says something about the state of society when the biography of a fictional Meer Kat can outstrip the memoirs of a former prime minister, but do we really need to stoop to such medieval levels?

The reason I bring this up is because in Britain, any such controversial views tend to get subverted easily into the public consciousness and remain there for a very long time. What Miss Harris (I’m taking a wild stab in the dark here that she is indeed a ‘miss’) doesn’t realise, is that social constructs on our small island differs from that of our bigger cousin. Whilst North Carolinian’s can derive inordinate levels of amusement from creatively versed bumper stickers, we’re usually too busy having our lips stiffened to notice. I suppose in a spurious way, I’m trying to make the point that we can sort out our own problems without entertaining the whims of a recluse with a rucksack full of self-help books and a pang for the days of fascism.

Maybe I shouldn’t be quite so surprised by the shock tactics applied by Project Prevention, as historically there have always been people or organisations that express highly contrasting views for the sole purpose of generating media publicity. I’ve always thought that another such example of this was the outspoken Robert Atkins; whose commitment to improbable gastronomy did for the world of eating disorders what Oppenheimer did for the city of Hiroshima.

Furthermore, one only has to open the Ryanair marketing handbook to add weight to the old proverb of any publicity being good publicity. The evangelistically creative; but often twisted, mind of their CEO; Michael O’Leary, has kept many a tabloid newspaper solvent in the past few years with raucous headlines about sub-£10 transatlantic flights, standing room only and using provocatively dressed schoolgirls in their marketing literature. My personal favourite outspoken campaign however, was from another budget airline called Kulula that decided to fly the route to South Africa during the football world cup, and to the behest of official event sponsors, announced themselves as the ‘Unofficial carrier of the you know what!’.

In the case of Project Prevention, I’d like to think that common sense would prevail and that few; if any, would step forward to be ‘fixed’. I’m usually all for persecuting the stupid and ‘Darwism’ but in a time where you can sue local government for tripping over a crack in the pavement, can they really get away with this? My guess is probably yes!

Apart from the perplexed expression on my face upon beholding Anne Widdecombe in a figure hugging dress and clearly not respecting her age in the latest BBC vanity showcase, the most highbrow political scandal of recent weeks was news of Ed defeating his older brother to win leadership of the Labour party. Quite why there was such animated battle for the helm of a sunken ship I don’t know, but I was slightly disappointed that the public reception of this news by David didn’t result in a black eye; perhaps inflicted by a spirited volley of Peter Mandelson’s latest book.

As you can probably tell from the paragraph above, I’m not Labour’s biggest fan at the best of times but I thought I’d owe it to them to read into what Ed Miliband is promising to bring to the party. Well the answer is not a great deal. I’ll just point out that this isn’t exclusive to Labour either, the figureheads of major political parties are just that. They are there to be the face of the party and I’ve always got the distinct impression that they are chosen on the grounds of having the loudest voice, best wardrobe or; in the case of Gordon Brown, simply because no one else wanted it. According to his campaign website, the mini-Miliband promises to “tackle the gap between rich and poor”, “promote fairness in education” and reform the voting system. Looking through the perpetrated grandeur of these statements, there is very little substance. If you set those as targets in a business, you wouldn’t impress your manager.

So; as his haircut might imply, it appears that Ed is just a puppet for the party machine but this still leaves the interesting question about what path his older brother will now take. In an announcement that surprised no one, a couple of days ago, he proclaimed that he was stepping down from front line politics in order to give his little brother ‘breathing space’.  Anyone that took the time to watch his speech however, probably noticed the the pained expression playing at the corners of his mouth of the sort that implies their family gathering this Christmas might be an awkward one.

Although the contest was a very close run with just 1.3% of votes separating the two brothers in the last stages, it was quite a surprise that Ed triumphed. His older brother received 18 more initial nominations and had some influential supporters in the form of Alistair ‘badger-man’ Darling and Alan Johnson behind him. I have my reservations about the authenticity of the contest however, and this stems from my old friends in the trade unions! A little reported fact; that may have had a significant bearing on the result, is that the GMB and Unite unions expressed their support of Ed by enclosing his promotional material and a ballot paper in a letter to their members. Labour party rules state that although unions are allowed to make recommendations to their members, they are not allowed to do it in the same correspondence as the ballot paper. Personally, I’d like to think that people could make up their mind without being indoctrinated by a poorly printed leaflet, but we have to remember that they probably have to cater for people that think the Labour Party is the prelude to giving birth so they’ve done as good a job at hiding their real intentions as Jacqui Smith’s husband did with her expenses claims.

With that covered, I’ll depart with the hollow congratulations that seem to be the accepted custom from the opposition. I’ll leave Ed to fall of his own sword and if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got another frequency I need to tune out.

Finding words to describe my current thinking of the solidarity charade exhibited by unions today has so far been my biggest challenge of the week. Admittedly it’s only Monday and I’m still recovering from the abrasions of an indulgent weekend, but I can’t be the only one concerned about the growing unwelcome influence that they seem to be exerting on the fabric of politics.

What angers me more than anything is their flippant eagerness towards industrial walkouts. I detest the word ‘fairness’ on account of it’s stigma and the fact that it’s often cliched, but in this instance it seems appropriate to use it. Take the recent British Airways strikes by cabin crew staff. It was deliberately timed to cause maximum inconvenience to any travelers by being scheduled to coincide with both bank and school holidays – an almost cruel move considering that many families had probably been deprived of vacating due to the economic downturn. Lets also not forget that this strike action was the result of moves by BA management to preserve the longevity of the business itself.

The recent union threats however, have come in response to the planned spending cuts by the chancellor George Osborne. Britain has been affected quite severely by the global recession and the effects of this were exacerbated by the previous chancellor who’s only redeeming feature was an abrupt and alarming colour contrast between different regions of his facial hair. As a consequence of this affliction and; to a slightly greater extent, his mentality of taking from the successful to fund the useless,  the change in government resulted in a new bursar that finally put and end to the ‘yes man’ legacy of Alistair Darling. Whilst spending cuts are never welcome news, anyone with a brain; and a willingness to engage it, has realised that it’s a necessary evil in order to keep the country solvent.

Naturally, the brunt of the cuts is going to affect the public sector – mainly with pay freezes and redundancies. I do have a lot of sympathy to anyone who has lost their job but ultimately savings have to be made somewhere. Local authorities have lost thousands of staff in recent months but have still managed to provide the same level of service which implies that they were either over-staffed or inefficient in their operations – something that wouldn’t surprise many local constituents.

Don’t get me wrong, I think the principle behind trade unions is a positive thing, after all their aim should be to promote the working environment and offer protection in the workplace for their members. However, as time has progressed and attitudes have changed, the traditional trade union philosophy is seldom required as we have evolved socially to that position on Maslow’s pyramid anyway. Senior campaigners nowadays just seem to cause friction for frictions sake, perhaps in a convoluted and pathetic attempt to justify their own considerable income. It does seem strange to me that Derek Simpson (joint leader of the Unite union) pockets nearly £200,000 a year, living in a £800,000 ‘grace-and-favour house’ whilst; at the same time, hypocritically ‘euphemises’ the virtues of semantic unpaid walkouts to the average worker. Call me harsh but short of taking Horlicks intravenously, I struggle to see how he sleeps at night.