A Hoochie Coochie Man’s date with a Kettle

Learning a musical instrument was something I thought would always be beyond me, I had neither the patience, dedication nor skill I had decided after dabbling with the Coronet and Cello at School. However often in life, fate brings together a number of events to provide a catalyst to kick-start something unexpected.

It was 1989 and I had spent the Summer and Autumn learning the ropes and getting to grips (literally) on the Peak District’s gritstone edges and quarries, Rock Climbing. The weather that year had been pretty damn good and I soon took to climbing loads of great routes, steadily getting harder and harder and whilst not being able to climb, outside, getting in some training indoors.

In those days Sheffield had one indoor training facility, or “wall” (it now boasts several) for climbers who wanted to continue to climb when the weather turned bad and the onset of winter meaning no climbing after School.

The ‘Al Rouse’ wall was based at Sheffield Polytechnic in their sports hall and quite frankly it was crap. Made up of two book-ended walls, its featured façade was a blocky brick affair with limited movement and repeated climbing traversing back and forth. It was a dull affair.

Some bright spark then invented removable plastic ‘holds’ that could be fitted to a wall to create and imitate climbs indoors that were more akin to the movement that could be joyously found outside on the natural crags. Sheffield’s first wall to utilise these moulded grips was in the gym at the Y.M.C.A. (it was fun to stay…). Suddenly we had coloured circuits to follow like twister meets dot-to-dot problems, arms & legs were tested and we had challenges to work on our technique, skill and strength. The fact I used to go on a Tuesday night when the girl’s trampoline class took place, in the gym was purely coincidental.

The object of my desires wasn’t just a lithe strawberry blonde bouncing up and down however; it was the new blue circuit consisting of a grand traverse that stretched the length of the gym walls. This was ‘worked’ week upon cold icy week, until finally I tore my head away from the trampolinist tottie and linked it in ‘a oner’. Job done, the beer was earned and it was on to the next challenge.

Now I don’t know about other sports, but in climbers there is always an urge to return to some of their greatest achievements to test themselves again, just to show to your own ego that you have still got it. It’s like the beach cricketing dad that smacks his son’s pee-rollers into the sea just to prove a point that he can but probably couldn’t when he should have, 20 years ago.

One of the unwritten rules of climbing I learned early door was, never go back.

First trip back to the YMCA after my triumph, the girls were flipping & getting some air and I was in a mustard keen mood. Quick warm up and I’ll do the blue circuit because I’ve done it now and it’s in my ability. Well in theory. One ‘stopper’ move saw me on the ground many times and my now swollen ego had summarily kicked this out of my memory as when I reached it everything felt wrong apart that I was trying to be a clever clogs who would be taken down a peg or two when inevitably I fell ten feet onto the hard wooden floor of the gym, landing on my right ankle, my foot 90 degrees to my leg.

Cutting a long story short, after trying to watch the trampolinist's, looking as miserable as myself. hoping the pain would cease (‘young man, pick yourself off the ground’) it was a trip to A&E. We had been at the YMCA all of 10 minutes. Two days in hospital and I returned home on crutches having snapped a ligament, “worse than bone breakage” said the consultant. Great, two weeks off school. Nothing much to pass the time… …until a red top Stratocaster copy guitar was passed over to me…

Pt 2: Muddy Walters & the Kettle...