Make Poverty History.

I remember precisely where I was on July 2nd 2005. I spent most of the afternoon and the whole evening at Hyde Park in London. The largest rock concert of all time 'Live 8' was happening, an immense global event, featuring some of rock and pop's biggest and most famous acts, and I'd been fortunate enough to snaffle some tickets. This was in complete contrast to the first ‘Live Aid’ concert twenty years earlier in 1985 when I'd had to settle for spending the day glued to the TV and taping the whole event from the radio coverage, even though it was happening only twenty miles away. So, I was feeling somewhat pleased with myself.

I'd decided to take my Dutch friend Marc along with me. Marc and I have been friends since my earliest days in the Netherlands, and I can confidently say he's my oldest and dearest Dutch friend. We met because we both worked for the same company in Rotterdam, and in fact Marc still does. On Marc's first day in the office he walked in wearing exactly the same jacket as me; same colour, same style. This was an excellent ice breaker and upon further investigation we discovered that we shared similar tastes in many things. Thus a connection was forged and a solid friendship began which has since stood the test of time.

One of the things Marc and I have most in common is an intense interest in music. Marc plays bass and has played in almost as many bands as I have. One of Marc's biggest musical influences is the band Pink Floyd. Dave Gilmour is Marc's very own personal hero. I would go as far to say that Marc is the biggest Pink Floyd fan I have ever met, and I've met quite a few over the years. So it was with this in mind that I'd invited him to attend 'Live 8' with me. I'd actually promised him that I'd take him as soon as it became clear that I might just be able to get some tickets. So when, incredibly fortuitously, I actually received some tickets in the post I rang him immediately. The pure ecstasy in his voice at the prospect of seeing the four original surviving members of Pink Floyd, reunited after 24 years, was such a beautiful thing to hear. I had a lump in my throat when I told him and I felt a joy in my heart knowing that it was such an easy thing for me to be able to fulfil this dream for him.

Before too long we found ourselves in Hyde Park for the big day, all around us were many smiling, expectant faces and everyone waited patiently as we were all herded into a holding pen where we'd have to stay until they finally opened the turnstiles and started to let us in. Surrounding us was an atmosphere of enthusiastic anticipation while we waited in line to be checked by security. The bubbling murmur of excited voices made us curious about exactly what sort of momentous day lay before us.

As we approached the gates I knew that I’d have to show my ticket and therefore started to reach into my back pocket. Panic gripped me when I realised there was nothing there. My heart started pounding and my mind raced as I checked the other pockets, there was no ticket in any of them. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!!" I quickly tried to make sense of what was happening.

"Marc, I think someone has pick-pocketed my ticket," I said, my eyes wide with alarm.

"You’re joking!" Marc responded with disbelief.

"I dunno it's just gone!" As I spoke I was double checking every pocket.

"Have you checked everywhere?"

"Yes! It's gone, I'm certain."

"Oh shit! It's not here with mine is it?” Marc checked the envelope I'd given him earlier containing his ticket. "No look there's only one here. What the fuck have you done with it?"

"It was in my back pocket, I'm sure," I said, desperately trying to remember what I’d done with my ticket. "Some bastard in this crowd must've stolen it without me noticing." 

I felt sick to my stomach as these words echoed inside my head and I realised their significance. My whole day would be ruined; my one chance to be a part of this historical day had disappeared in an instant. Dark thoughts quickly enveloped my brain as I silently cursed whoever had been clever enough to steal my ticket from under my nose. I was standing on the lip of a precipice looking down into the boiling flames of a fire-pit from hell and feeling the inexorable pull downwards.

We were close to the turnstiles now. Within a couple of minutes I'd have to show my non-existent ticket to security and face expulsion. Marc, seeing the disappointment on my face and sympathising with my plight, offered me his ticket like a true friend. I thanked him, but I wasn't about to allow him to miss this phenomenal day. I'd just have to accept the consequences of my negligence and step aside. I folded my arms across my chest in resignation, shaking my head. Then I felt it, under my T-shirt, tucked into my waistband under my belt…where I'd put it…for SAFE KEEPING!!

I quickly pulled out the envelope containing my ticket and let out a huge sigh of relief. Oh what a stupid twat I was, oh my God how utterly inane! Marc was grinning. I had been saved from the pit at the last moment, it felt as if a huge eagle had swept down and picked me up from the edge of the precipice and now I was soaring up into a bright blue sunlit sky. Every little bit of tension that had so suddenly enveloped my back, neck and chest was now instantly released. The day was saved. Internally I scolded myself for being so quick to blame someone else for my own foolishness. How quickly darkness can fill our thoughts; how readily we seek to blame faceless villainy for our own shortcomings. There was indeed a lesson to be learned.

I showed my ticket to the security man, he tore off the stub and waved me through the turnstile. I was then greeted by one of his colleagues, frisked and had my bag checked for glass bottles, bombs and heaven knows what else. Then we were in. Marc and I strode purposefully toward the stage to claim our spot amongst the throng as the 250,000 strong crowd slowly built up. The sun was shining on and off, as big white cumulus clouds scudded gently across the sky. It felt great to be there.

After a short delay the biggest concert the world had ever known kicked off and it's difficult to describe the varied feelings of emotion that welled up inside me when Paul McCartney took the stage with U2 to kick off with “Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band”. As soon as I heard the words "It was twenty years ago today…" and the special poignancy those lyrics now held, alluding to the first 'Live Aid' concert, tears filled my eyes and I felt immense pride; proud to be a part of this; proud to make a stand against world poverty; proud to be British; proud to be old enough to remember the first one and above all proud to be a part of history.

The rest of that afternoon Marc and I watched, danced, cheered and sang along to nearly all of the numerous groups and solo artists that took to the London stage. Once or twice we went to queue for one of the port-a-loos to relieve our bulging bladders or buy some food & drink from one of the many catering concerns on site, missing part of an act in the process. Occasionally we sat an act out because they didn't particularly interest us – Snoop Dog and Mariah Carey spring to mind. These were also prime opportunities to rest our aching legs, neither of us being used to standing for a whole day. Highlights for Marc, I think, were Velvet Revolver and Sting; and for me Bob Geldof (re-living his 'Live Aid' moment during “I Don't Like Mondays”), Annie Lennox and Joss Stone.

We also watched, with interest, footage shown on the giant screens to the sides and at the rear of the stage of the other 'Live 8' concerts going on simultaneously that day, in other parts of the world. It felt as if there was a real force for global change and finally we lesser-mortals had the attention of the most powerful leaders in the world: the G8. It felt like a real 'people-power' moment similar to that which we'd witnessed in the 90's after the fall of the Berlin Wall and the subsequent decline of Communism in Eastern Europe. Sadly, in retrospect, although the movement had some initial successes in its endeavour to eliminate poverty, since then it appears that what we were actually given by the G8 was mainly rhetoric and platitudes. In some instances promises, assurances and pledges made at that time have entirely failed to materialise. In my opinion this is a great and abiding shame. Of course in the current economic climate nothing will change; and if anything, more of the promises made that day are likely to be broken.

As the evening fell and the skies above London began to darken, Marc and I started to edge forwards in the crowd to get an optimal position for what would surely be the biggest highlight of the whole day: Pink Floyd's reunion performance. Slowly over the course of two or three hours we occupied spaces left by people in front of us as they moved back for toilet or refreshment breaks.

We both thoroughly enjoyed Robbie Williams and after years of completely misunderstanding my reverence for this British cultural icon, Marc finally got it. He could at long last see, hear and feel for himself what an incredible performer that guy is. Robbie truly held the entire audience in the palm of his hand with his inimitable charm, overwhelming panache and unbelievable charisma. His showmanship was on top form as he pleased the crowds with some of his greatest hits, having recently returned to the U.K. after a prolonged stint of living in America. He certainly didn't disappoint anyone.

After Robbie Williams' awesome performance we made the most territorial gains as the youngsters vacated their forward positions which were eagerly filled by 30- 40- and 50-somethings, like us desperate for the prospect of a better view of The Who, Pink Floyd and finally McCartney's grand-finalé. As we neared the barrier, which was the closest point we could get to the stage without a V.I.P. pass - excluded from the 'golden circle' as we were - competition grew fierce amongst the restless crowd. Many of the positions we tried to occupy were strenuously defended by people who'd been camped out there for the whole day. More than once we were threatened with violence by drunken or drugged-up louts, fiercely guarding their metre-square patch of turf whilst we stealthily inched forward into any free space which became available.

The Who provided some welcome relief from our stressful machinations. Happy with our hard won emplacement, two rows away from the barrier and slightly off-centre to the left of the sound-desk tent, Marc and I settled in to watch one of the hardest working bands in show business. Because only Roger Daltrey and Pete Townsend remained from the original line-up, the band on that night was supplemented with Steve White (Paul Weller's drummer) and Damon Minchella (Ocean Colour Scene's bassist). Despite this, and the fact that they were at that time celebrating 41 years in the business, they put on a performance worthy of the British rock stalwarts they truly were. Both Marc and I watched entranced as Daltrey swung his microphone and Townsend windmilled his way through “Who Are You” and “We Won't Get Fooled Again”. It was mind blowing to see them in full throttle, remaining almost as vigorous and energetic as they must have been in their youth. These two men who have inspired so many to learn instruments and start bands of their own were equally inspirational to me and I personally hope that I have as much energy and verve when I reach their age.

After the compelling delights provided by The Who, Marc and I held our premium position and I could see that Marc was barely able to contain his excitement with the prospect of all his dreams coming true in the very immediate future. There was a delay on stage and it was already becoming clear that the concert would over-run by a couple of hours. This precipitated a tension in the air as the Hyde Park audience wondered whether they'd be able to get a tube train home. The build up was excruciating and you could feel a tangible electric buzz from the masses of Floyd fans, old and new, waiting for the magic to begin.

An immense roar arose from the patiently waiting crowd as the familiar sound of a heartbeat which started the song “Speak to Me/Breathe” was heard through the giant P.A. system and a reunited Pink Floyd took the stage for the first time in 24 years. Marc's face was a picture, like a five year old boy faced for the first time with a jolly, bearded real-life Santa Claus; the delight and awe was only too evident. He was completely enraptured, caught up in a single moment in time; for him nothing else mattered except for the “right here and right now”. For me too the moment felt enormously significant, a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see these massive British rock legends do what they do best.

I was thoroughly entranced from beginning to end. The four all-too-familiar songs were executed perfectly. Roger Waters’ tribute to Syd Barrett at the beginning of “Wish You Were Here” caused a lump to rise in my throat. More tears started to well up when the four great men took a final bow, arms around each other in a symbolic display of unity. A greater and supremely worthy cause had motivated them to set their differences aside, just for once. They provided a few moments in time which, I'm sure, for everyone there will be remembered forever. Looking back these moments take on a particular poignancy; the recent death of keyboardist and founding member Rick Wright ensures that this magic will never be repeated.

After Pink Floyd had left the stage Marc looked disappointed and yet overwhelmed at what he had just witnessed. He thanked me again for enabling him to be there and seemed lost in wistful reverie. Although the show still wasn't over we felt that we'd already witnessed the highlight and our aching legs and feet longed for the chance to rest a while. This was of course impossible, we were completely packed in like sardines in the middle of the crowd and the proximity of others meant that sitting down wasn't an option. We resolved to ignore the aches and pains and watch the show's finalé as Paul McCartney was due back on stage; a nice way to round off, I thought, with the same person who had begun the whole event.

The world’s most celebrated, bass playing, rock 'n' roll icon finally reprised the whole show in his own highly professional and unforgettable style. I remember thinking how tired he must have been having spent the whole day on site knowing he'd have to remain fresh to complete his act. He was joined briefly by George Michael to help sing backing vocals on “Baby You Can Drive My Car” which elicited another huge cheer from the hordes of exhausted onlookers. Another poignant moment was McCartney's piano rendition of “The Long and Winding Road”, the lyrics of which now appeared to be about “The Long Walk to Justice” a march to Edinburgh, close to Gleneagles where the G8 summit was being held, taking place in 4 days time. I'd vowed to become involved in this as testament to my commitment to this cause, Marc unfortunately had to return home to the Netherlands but I'd be accompanied this time by my brother and his wife.

The whole cast of musicians appeared on stage for the extended coda finalé of 'Hey Jude' with Bob Geldof centre stage and once again there were more echoes of 'Live Aid' from twenty years previously. Then swiftly it was all over. As we began to leave Hyde Park, bowled along by the thronging masses I told Marc that I'd have to sit down just for a while by the gates to relieve my aching feet. We were both comprehensively tired and even though we'd been told that trains would keep running later than usual, there was still a sense of urgency to get out of town.

A few days later my brother, his wife and I were returning from Edinburgh on an early morning shuttle flight having attended “The Final Push”, a concert at Murrayfield to mark the end of “The Long Walk to Justice” featuring amongst many others the legendary performer that was James Brown. Although fatigued from very little sleep we were all quite buoyant upon arrival at Heathrow. The day before it had been announced that London's Olympic bid, against Paris, for the 2012 games had been successful and it seemed that, just for once, everything was right with the world. Making our way from the arrivals hall into the terminal we noticed that there were more policemen than would normally be seen at the airport and a strangely sombre atmosphere was pervading the place. My father picked us up in his car and immediately told us that, whilst we were airborne, terrorists had bombed several tube trains and a bus that morning in central London causing horrendous carnage. We all fell silent in a state of complete shock; there had been a threat that something like that might happen but nobody believed it really could or would.

I'd felt personally spoilt over the last week; I'd had the incredible fortune of being able to witness, first hand, live performances from some of the most celebrated rock and pop musicians ever. For someone like me, wholeheartedly interested in that genre, it had been a veritable orgy of delight, but right then I had the overwhelming feeling that the party was well and truly over.

Oh White Water Keep On Rolling....

It was my first Christmas away from home. I’d travelled across to the other side of the world to New Zealand to spend a few weeks with my best friend Paul. It was the first time that I’d spent so many hours on a plane. Arriving on Christmas Eve I was invited to a social event that very evening arranged by Paul’s company on a large boat out in Waitemata Harbour. I was so jet lagged that I was falling asleep whilst doing my level best to be sociable and make the acquaintance of Paul’s work colleagues. Whatever those Kiwi’s must’ve made of this weird Englishman lapsing into an unconscious torpor after only two beers and right in the middle of a conversation (and, I’m told, actually mid-sentence at one point) I’ll never know. Paul found it hilarious of course.

The next morning, after a much-needed night's sleep for me and a Christmas morning breakfast of champagne and strawberries in Paul’s garden, we headed to the beach for a traditional Kiwi Christmas day. Along the way Paul stopped at the only open service station we could find, where he purchased the ingredients for a very non-traditional Christmas Dinner of eggs, bacon, snags (Antipodean for sausages) and baked beans, which we then cooked on the (thoughtfully provided) public beach barbeque.

It didn’t really feel like Christmas Day; there in the bright sunshine in the middle of a southern hemisphere summer on a sandy beach as we watched families playing cricket together and the azure and white surf waves of the Pacific Ocean come tumbling rhythmically up the beach. I wondered about my family back in the U.K. who in twelve hours time would be tucking into their traditional Christmas Dinner of turkey with all the trimmings, in my absence for the first time ever, and probably in a typically English cold and drizzly winter setting. My wistful cogitation on this matter didn’t last long though as my attention turned to the adventures that lay ahead of me in Aotearoa or The Land of the Long White Cloud, as they call it in Maori.

New Zealand is renowned as the adrenaline sports capital of the world and Paul and I would take full advantage of this fact over the next fortnight or so. Travelling around the North Island in his sporty green Honda, we'd be staying at various motels and caravan parks and visiting all the sights on offer. Amongst the activities that we would enjoy during that couple of weeks were bungee jumping, jet boating, a helicopter ride, quad biking and tandem sky diving. We lived on New Zealand’s famous Ponsonby Meat Pies (steak and cheese being a particular favourite) and the McDonald’s special Beefmeister Burger (I couldn’t get enough of those: two quarter pound patties with cheese, loads of special sauce, onions and a minimal amount of salad on one huge toasted bun). Also occasionally we'd eat a Kiwiburger although it was somewhat of an acquired taste (a normal cheeseburger but with the addition of a fried egg and a slice of beetroot).

New Year's Eve was spent mostly at a house party in Mount Maunganui, but also at an especially laid-on rock concert on the beach. I found the whole thing weird, I must say. Sitting on a beach on a relatively warm evening where it didn’t get dark until gone 10pm, and later hearing everybody wishing each other ‘Happy New Year’, it just didn’t feel right to me. I was used to spending my New Year's Eves inside, comfortable and cozy out of the inevitable cold and damp weather, during dark dingy winter nights.

I thought about the only other time I could recall that I’d spent my New Year's Eve wholly outside, one year when I was around 17 or so. Several friends and I made the short trip by train and tube to Trafalgar Square with plastic bags stuffed with bottles of cheap cider and cans of supermarket-brand lager. In those days the fountains were left open (before they started boxing them in sometime around the mid-eighties) and you could, and I did in drunken abandonment, frolic in the gushing waters. My overwhelming memory was that after the rowdy countdown to midnight I was snogging and groping a plethora of equally drunk women of various ages and levels of beauty in amongst the heaving crowds; this commotion was accompanied by the chimes of Big Ben from a few hundred yards down the road, as the cheer for another promise laden new beginning went up. Because I was a fit, blonde-haired, blue-eyed teenager of limited sexual experience I found it a little intimidating when the less attractive older women (in their 30's!) grabbed a hold of me, breathed alcohol-laden fumes in my face, slurred “Appienooyuuurrr darlin'!” and plunged their tongues down my throat before I had a chance to escape. I’m sure that is precisely when I picked up my very first cold sore infection.

We couldn’t afford a taxi and all the trains had stopped running, so we walked the six miles to Chiswick High Road where one of my friend’s older brothers had a flat in which we could all crash-out on the floor. That journey probably took about three hours as we were all so completely inebriated. I was absolutely freezing cold in my soaking wet jeans and squelchy boots from my earlier fountain frolics. I’d lost my jacket too, as I recall, and I have vague memories of someone wearing a traffic cone as a hat and some of us stealing flashing roadworks' lanterns. At one point, in desperation, we realized that if we pooled our remaining cash we could probably afford to get a cab the rest of the way and so we started trying to hail black cabs, none of which stopped of course. One look at this motley gang of drunken teenagers in damp clothing and sporting stolen flashing lanterns would be enough to tell any self-respecting cabbie that this really wasn’t a fare worth picking up...what a complete contrast that evening was to where I was now!

Later that week I found myself arguing with Paul, we’d decided that we wanted to go white water rafting and we’d picked up a leaflet from the Rotorua tourist information office. We just had to book whichever excursion we fancied, once we’d had a chance to mull over all the options of course.

“Look, it’s our first time doing this don’t you think it would be more sensible to do a nice sedate Grade 2 trip first?” asked Paul.

“Mate, this is probably my one and only chance to do this. There isn’t gonna be enough time for us to do another excursion during this trip. So we might as well do the top one - the Grade 5. It’s meant to be an adrenalin buzz anyway; what sort of buzz are we gonna get from doing a pansy-arsed Grade 2?”

The International Rapid Classification System qualifies Grade 5 as: very powerful rapids with very confused and broken water, large drops, violent and fast currents, abrupt turns, difficult powerful stoppers and fast boiling eddies; with numerous obstacles in the main current. Complex, precise and powerful sequential manoeuvring is required. A definite risk to personal safety exists.

Do we really want to put ourselves in mortal danger for the sake of a quick buzz?” Paul asked, sensibly.

“Quite frankly mate YES!” I grinned.

“But you’re a much better swimmer than me, what if I fall in?”

“Then I’ll just have to save you won’t I?”

“God you’re so fucking arrogant,” said Paul.

“I know,” I smirked. “Look mate, I'm certain we won’t regret this…it’s gonna be awesome…TRUST ME!”

After what seemed like an hour of arguing, I finally had to resort to the dubious macho tactic of questioning Paul’s sexual orientation and proclivities before he was eventually browbeaten into submission and agreed to attempt the formidable Grade 5. We returned to the tourist information office and the nice blonde woman behind the counter booked it for us, took our money for the reservation and gave us directions to the Kaituna River where we’d be rafting.

Upon arrival at Trout Pool Road, the setting off point, we had to sign disclaimers exempting the rafting company, Kaituna Cascades, from any liability. We kitted up into wetsuits, fleeces, surf booties, life jackets and helmets. Greg the instructor gave us a paddle each and introduced us to the rest of the crew that would be in our large inflatable raft. They were a mixture of people of various nationalities and, like us, all virgins to the sport.

Greg briefed us about the rafting route we were about to embark upon. Running through an extremely steep and narrow canyon, in the course of about an hour we would paddle 14 awesome drops, including two Grade 5 waterfalls and some great rapids from Grade 3+ to Grade 5. We received some dry land instruction, first practising procedures on the river bank and learned how to respond to the commands Greg would give us along the route. At the ‘put in’ point Greg organized everybody according to their weight and body build. I was positioned at the back because of my bulk and upper body strength. Paul was seated at the front to balance me out and fend us away from the rocks. Greg then told us how to operate the raft in the water, what each person’s responsibilities were and what to do in case of an emergency.

There were three other rafts in the water with us, each with a virgin crew and instructor busily explaining things. As we set off down the river in a gentle current, our raft was third in line. The first few rapids were gentle and easy and gave us a chance to practice the manoeuvres and techniques for the more challenging rapids that lay ahead. The trick was to guide the raft into the best entry point for any given section of rapids and essentially hold on for dear life as the waters took you. The raft had ropes at the sides and front to hold onto, and special handles built into the floor. We were advised on how to move to adjust the weight within the raft according to how we wanted to manoeuvre it. The most difficult thing seemed to be holding onto the ropes and your paddle simultaneously whilst being wildly buffeted by the water against the large rocks.

In between the sections of rapids and waterfalls, in the canyons and gorges, there was a chance to enjoy the scenery as we waited in clear, still pools until each raft had completed that section. The mountains rose up either side of us, covered in a thick forest of native trees. We saw trout jumping for flies in the pools ahead of us and birds swooping low skimming the water for insects. Artists and filmmakers will tell you that there is something magical about the light in New Zealand and it really does make those landscapes even more breathtaking and special.

We came to a quiet section where it appeared that, over eons, the river had carved a niche for itself out of pure granite. Cliffs rose up tightly on either side of us and there was just enough room to get a raft through. Beyond and above the strange and beautiful rock formations of this natural cutting the forest towered majestically, echoing with weird and wonderful calls from the native wildlife.

The fun really started when we went over the top of the world's highest commercially rafted waterfall, the Tutea Falls, and experienced an almost vertical drop of 7 meters. The raft was tossed violently to the swirling whirlpool at the bottom and with the thousands of litres of water falling around me, I felt like a lone sock in a washing machine on a spin cycle. There was a brief moment when the water just poured over us as if we were being bombarded from all directions by water canons. We clung firmly to the ropes and some of us had shifted around in the raft, but nobody fell out. Incredibly we remained afloat and continued to find our route through the turbulent waters until we were ejected out the other end.

It’s difficult to explain the exhilaration you feel when you complete a section of rapids and waterfalls; maybe it’s to do with relinquishing that need for control. There is a palpable excitement as you approach the entry point to a dangerous section; the anticipation is unimaginable. The water gradually deepens. It bunches up at the horizon and swells. Ahead you hear the thunderous roar as the river tumbles inexorably downward, obeying the laws of gravity. When the raft tips over the edge, through the mists you glimpse the tumultuous chaos ahead. Your heart stops momentarily, your grip tightens and you brace yourself. You surrender completely to the mercy of the flow. Huge jagged rocks loom; just as you know you are going to be dashed against them the raft lurches to one side and you are swept away by the torrent.

At the end of our incredible joy ride down this fevered stretch of water, the other rafting crews had to make several stops to pick up members who'd been thrown overboard and were clinging to boulders awaiting rescue. Our crew lost nobody.

Paul and I were unusually quiet as we drove away from the Kaituna River that evening. Our bodies were aching from the day’s exertions and a delicious tiredness was seeping through us, but there was nonetheless a warm glow within and a comforting sense of achievement.

“Thanks mate!” said Paul.

"What for?" I asked.

Paul's broad grin was lit up by the lights of an oncoming car. “You may be an arrogant shit but you were absolutely right. That Grade 5 was just fucking awesome and at least you didn't have to fish me out of the drink!”

Back to Earth With a Bump.

It was my idea. I’d been living in Rotterdam for just over a year and my brother-in-law was coming over for a visit. I’d done some research about things we could do together whilst he was over and, apart from the usual tourist stuff available, I’d found out that it was possible on alternate Saturday mornings to either abseil or death slide from the Euromast. It worked out that the Saturday Brian would be here was an abseiling day, so I booked us in. Now I should point out here that I regularly enjoy doing crazy, adrenalin-pumping things and felt I had an advantage because at the tender age of twelve I’d actually done some abseiling.

It was at a Butlins holiday camp on a school excursion and I think the idea was that we took part in various activities as character and team building exercises. You know the sort of thing: swimming; canoeing; rafting; assault courses and also, of course, abseiling. At the time I remember we were abseiling down a wall especially built for the purpose which must have been about 10 meters high, which doesn’t sound like much, but to a twelve year old is extremely scary. I recall that at the first attempt I was totally petrified. The instructor had helped me get into position and all I had to do was lower myself gently over the edge so that my legs were perpendicular to the wall. Then it was just a case of walking down the wall whilst letting out the rope, it sounded simple. I stood on the edge of the wall with my back facing out clinging for dear life to the rope with ice white knuckles at a 45% angle to the ground which seemed to be so very, very far below. The instructor was encouraging me to let out some more rope so that I would then naturally adopt the correct position for abseiling down the wall. I kept looking down and was unable to function because of the fear pulsing through my veins. I remained hanging there, looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights. The instructor continued gently trying to persuade me that everything would be OK. After a while my fears lessened to the point where I gingerly let out a little rope and my bottom lowered so that I was finally in the correct position to walk very slowly down the wall. It still took me several minutes to reach the base. However, upon reaching the safety of solid ground I found that my anxiety had evaporated, not only that but I was eager to do it again with a new found enthusiasm. I continued to do it many times that day each time my confidence growing to the point where eventually I was positively bouncing down the wall in three bounds like an SAS commando at the Iranian Embassy siege.

So actually I was relishing the prospect of abseiling the Euromast knowing that the secret was just to overcome your initial fears of actually leaning out perpendicular to the building. What I hadn’t thought over was that it had been twenty two years previously that I’d had my ONLY experience of abseiling and that it had been less than one tenth the height I was about to attempt.

My brother-in-law Brian arrived on the Friday evening, I picked him up from the airport and as usual we proceeded to get completely mashed showing little regard for what we were about to attempt the following morning. After very little sleep I awoke Brian early and following a hearty breakfast we drove to the Euromast for our appointment with destiny.

Arriving at the top of the Euromast we quickly signed the disclaimer forms stating that if one should die during this foolhardy attempt the only person that was to blame whatsoever would be oneself. The view from the observation platform was awesome and I was pleased to note that although there was some wind it was fairly light. We were given and quickly kitted up in a helmet and thick gloves. Now, keen to show absolutely no fear in front of Brian and remembering that the toughest part was the initial going over the edge, I started to clamber over the railing (the only thing between me and a sheer 110 meter drop) right next to the ropes which were already in place and firmly secured (I hoped) somewhere above us. I looked back at Brian and the instructor who both looked extremely startled by my actions.

“Wait!” shouted the instructor “First you need to put on a harness and then to be attached to the rope!”

“Oh yes of course” I replied trying desperately NOT to look down as I struggled back over the railing and attempting to sound nonchalant as if I did this every day.

Brian just laughed and shot me a look that said “Easy tiger!”

We got into our harnesses and were attached to the ropes via karabiners. Only then were we told by the instructor to go over the railing, which I did even more confidently than the first time and this time feeling slightly safer. Remembering once again that the difficult bit was getting in a perpendicular position I quickly lowered myself into the appropriate stance and looked over to see how Brian was getting on, making sure that I wasn’t tempted to look down at the 110 meter drop below us.

Brian seemed to be getting along fine; I was impressed considering that it was his first time. He was being encouraged by the instructor who was positioned on a rope between us. I turned back to concentrate on my own actions and started to walk down the first part of the mast from the observation deck. The technique certainly did seem to be coming back to me from when I was a frightened twelve year old and I confidently fed the rope through the karabiner as I eased myself slowly down. I was standing on plate glass and suddenly realized that I could see people staring back at me from the restaurant. How weird, I thought, to be eating breakfast whilst someone walks down the windows outside. This however proved to be the easy bit!

When you imagine the Euromast you must think of a large syringe and needle standing upright, 185 meters tall, with a marshmallow pushed over the needle (radio mast) and resting, a little over half way up, at the point where the needle meets the body of the syringe. The topside of that marshmallow is the observation platform that I had just left, and the body is the restaurant I was now staring into, watching diners gawping back at me whilst they masticated their ‘broodje ham kaas’s ‘ and slurped their coffee. Having easily and confidently worked my way down these huge windows I suddenly realized that what I now faced was a drop into effectively nothingness. There would no longer be anything solid to rest against. The last 100 meters I would be just suspended in an abyss, hanging free with nothing but the rope for support.

I waited at the bottom of the last glass window and looked to my left to see how Brian and the instructor were getting along, deciding sensibly that it was better to listen to the professional tell me how to do this tricky manoeuvre. Brian was coming down very well and had got the hang of it immediately. Soon they were both at the same level as me and I watched as the instructor showed us how to elegantly launch ourselves into the void from a rail which was conveniently placed, and went entirely around, the bottom of the aforementioned marshmallow.

I followed his example and took a leap of faith, to find myself suspended and spinning in mid-air. As I gently turned on the rope a breathtaking panoramic view of Rotterdam’s skyline, river and 'havens' (harbours) moved from left to right before my eyes, 360 degrees of awe inspiring vista...and there it is again...and again. I felt the breeze blowing in my face and heard the roar of the traffic below entering the Maas Tunnel. My arms started to ache as I realized how tightly I was holding onto the rope, every sinew of every muscle in my whole body was tensed. I conciously suppressed the urge to vomit as I spun around yet again and concentrated on controlling my racing heartbeats. I looked down at the spiralling 100 meter drop below, which was a really bad move. I tried NOT to imagine myself splatted on the pavement beneath like a stray glob of raspberry jam, falling from some giant piece of buttery toast. I tried to relax, and remember that if I let go nothing would happen. I would remain suspended and sitting cradled safely by my harness and would not move earthwards until I started to feed more rope through my karabiner. I was in control. However, my brain knowing that and my body knowing that were two different things. My hands continued to grip the rope steadfastly as if my very survival depended upon it, I flashed back to being a twelve year old with ice white knuckles petrified of the drop below. I dared to glance over to Brian and was pleased to note that he looked as terrified as I felt. He was also spinning gently in the breeze.

Once we'd stopped revolving the instructor started to speak bringing us both back to focus on the job in hand - i.e. getting down from here. He told us both to relax and remember that if we let go nothing would happen. He demonstrated the fact by completely relinquishing hold of his rope and leaning back in his harness until his body was almost completely prostrate and revolving slowly in the wind.

“Like this!” he showed us, smiling broadly.

I took every ounce of courage I possessed and gradually let go of my rope one hand at a time. My muscles relaxed a little and I started to enjoy the sensation of being suspended like a puppet high above the streets of Rotterdam. I let out an audible sigh of relief and heard something similar from Brian who had also started letting go of his rope. My muscles started to relax, and my breathing slowed as my body finally came to the realisation that I was actually not in any imminent danger of becoming a pavement pizza, squished, warm and sticky like fresh roadkill.

After this of course we got cocky.

The adrenalin was accompanied by testosterone and macho competitiveness kicked in. As we continued the innevitable descent, we carried on feeding more and more rope through our karabiners at a faster and faster pace. A race developed between us. We started to come down at a very rapid rate and finally the last twenty meters I was literally in freefall and touched the ground a fraction of a second before Brian, landing with both feet once again reassuringly on terra firma. We were both laughing uncontrollably, visibly high from the adrenalin rush and also, I think, very relieved to be down in one piece, with all our body parts still intact.

We spent the next couple of hours sitting in the sunshine on the grass in the nearby park watching others abseiling down the Euromast as the morning's events began to sink in to our hung over brains. We both agreed that it was an amazing feat and mutually congratulated ourselves for the achievement. I remember feeling that having done that, then nothing else would ever seem like quite such a challenge again. As the excess of hormones, adrenalin and other bodily chemicals subsided from our overworked bloodstreams and the muscle aches disappeared, a gentle peace descended and engulfed our very being, a calmness and oneness that only placing yourself in mortal danger can elicit. Nothing however could remove the stupid self satisfied grins that remained on our faces for the rest of that weekend!