Summer found us in Chamonix, (for the uninitiated, that's a sort of Alpine Blackpool) and having pitched camp at a rather excellent camp site (by Pennine standards, bogs, etc.!)

I extracted two bottles of beer from one of the 48 crates stacked in our booze cache and passed one to Roebuck.

The rest of the team pondered over maps and guides, eagerly making assessments and comments of what to do and where to go. Roebuck milled around with that evil glint in his eye which I have come to recognise over the years as a danger sign. I swallowed the beer and adjusted my sunglasses, trying to hide behind them from Roy - it didn't work, and reluctantly I found myself throwing various items into my rucksack for the morrow. "Oh, God!", I thought, "Ere we go again". "Just a recce", he said, "Nip up there for a bit, and 'ave a look round", he said. "No need for an early start", he said.

5 a.m. - I crawled out of my tent with a mouth like the inside of a lime-burner's clog, to find aforementioned Roebuck beast eating something 'orrible and brown - Hell! its gonna be one of those days.

6 a.m. - we were queuing for the 'frique (this is the colloquial term applied to a machine with wires that deposits poor, unsuspecting climbers half-way up a mountain, with no visible means of going up or down).

We alighted at the Aiguille du Plan and consulted map and book and decided to do the S.W. ridge of the Aiguille des Pelerins, a 2000 ft. route of 'T.D.' with pitches of III. However, there are supposedly plenty of ways round the hard bits and many escape routes. "But Roy", I offered, "I thought we had only come for a look". "Well, we've looked, 'aven't we". "But Roy", I said, "It's a long way". "Looks good though, dunnit". "But Roy", I whined, "We haven't got a bloody rope". "Be right", he replied, and with glazed eyes loped off.

We reached the first summit with little difficulty, the ridge reminded me of a large scale version of Pinnacle ridge on Gillean, only longer, more difficult, and a damn sight more air beneath your boots. 2nd peak and we had lunch. "Can we go home now Roy" - "Sod off".

This remark, I am sure, started off an avalanche on the Frendo Spur. We watched from our airy ledge as tons of the stuff poured onto the Pelerins Glacier. Roebuck grinned unmercifully. "I want me mam!", I said.

3rd peak became slightly more technical as we free-climbed past unwanted pegs and abseil slings. "Look Roy, I think its time we either had a rope or pissed off home!", but my words fell on deaf ears as Roebuck's bum disappeared up a chimney. Now my old mate is a bit 'ard on rock (or a bit daft, whichever way you look at it) and, as I followed up this rather nasty lay-back move with a drop of some 1000 ft beneath me and no sodding rope, I began to curse loudly at that grinning "Bobby-beastie" lounging comfortably above me.

A stance was reached and I began to complain bitterly when our altercation was interrupted by a familiar noise. "Oi! wot d'yer reckon", exclaimed Beverley's answer to Ron Fawcett. "Some bastard's dropped a rope on me 'ead". Sure enough I looked up to see a French guide abseiling down to our stance. We watched in silence as he brought his two clients to our ledge. "Bonjour", he beamed. "Ow do!", said Roebuck, "Ere, can you tell us how we get down?" The amiable Frenchman beamed again and pointed to his descender. "Oh aye", said my mate, "That's alright if you ave a rope!". "What!", spat a rather upset little Froggy, "Nom de Nom!! Sacre bleu! You 'ave no rope!" "Naah!", replied Roy, "We didn't think we'd bother". Whereupon the little Frenchman clipped back into his rope and sped hurriedly earthwards. "Wonder wot's up wi' 'im?", says Roebuck.

The 4th and final peak is rather nasty without hardwear, and I managed to talk Superman out of it. "Righto", he says, "Let's go home", and he leapt off down a snow filled gully. Before reaching the moraine we came across another two Brits., unlike us, they had gone to the other extreme and had adorned themselves in everything from rock pegs to dead men and in so doing were making heavy weather of the descent route, made even heavier by Rockbuck treading on one of the poor sod's fingers. To make amends I offered to buy beer at the nearest hostelry whereupon they began to recount their exploits of two days before, on a route called the Aiguille du Plan traverse. "Catch the last 'Frique up at 5.30 p.m., take a load of gear up in a carrier bag, - nosh, booze, etc. and kip in the Aiguille du Midi Telepherique station bogs, - they don't mind!". It sounded too good to be true - it was!

We left camp at midday next day. Rae Lonsdale ran us into Cham. and dropped us off at the Bar - 'Nash. Meanwhile, two other Pennine agents were busying themselves on top of the Aig. du M. with cameras and my guide book the arrangement being to transfer the latter at the mid-station on the Aig. du Plan.

So, faced with certain disaster, I sat in the Bar 'Nash and did what any other red-blooded Pennine member would do - I got pissed while waiting for departure time.

We clambered into the Telepherique armed with rucksack, crampons, axe and hammer and a carrier bag each full of beer. All went well until we passed the descending car and I saw Jean Lonsdale leaning out of the window shouting, "Yoo hoo!", and waving our guide book - Roebuck laughed, I wept, worse was to follow.

We alighted at the Aig du M. to find the weather worsening, it was snowing like hell and blowing a gale. "Never mind Bud!", said my mate, "Let's 'ave some jock and throw some beer down our necks". We hung around the toilets of the station waiting for everything to close down and get suitably ensconced for the night, when a funny little Frenchman came, and told us the last 'Frique was leaving in 10 mins. "Oh, thanks very much!", says I. Roebuck muttered something about "A silly sod". 5 mins. later the Frenchman returned to say the last car was leaving and that we should be on it. "Go to 'ell!", says Roebuck, "We've only just come up!" whereupon the pseudo-gendarme takes us by the collar to an ice tunnel with a barred door at the end of it. Above same door was a sign which read) "Danger alpinists only!". "We can't go out there", I said, "Why not?", says Roy, - It says alpinists, not piss-artists", I replied; however, the Frenchy would have none of this and booted us out.

The ice tunnel continued for about 30 ft. which was strewn with bodies of climbers - all Brits. - (some had probably been there all year) who were waiting for the door to re-open. either of us felt like staying he night there, so we decided to make for the Cosmiques hut, it was 7.30 p.m. and the weather was worsening still as we climbed onto the ridge which leads down from the Aiguille/ to Vallée Blanche. This descends at about 60° and is so acute you have to kick one step on the East side and one on the West. I began to feel giddy and decided that gaining altitude by mechanical means and after many pints in the Nash was not to be recommended. I teetered and clumsily kicked my way down the ridge, axe in one hand, 'Asda-bag' full of ale in the other. Roebuck was miles in front worrying about me jettisoning the beer.

We crossed thigh-deep snow of the Vallée Blanche and reached the hut at 9 p.m. whereupon we met the guide we had acquainted the day before, "Bonjour", he said, "Perhaps you know where you climb this time". "Yes", says I, "and this time we have a rope". The guardian told us we could sit in the kitchen and have a bed from 1 a.m. till 4 a.m. We cooked our meal and began talking to two other Brits, when I decided it was time to 'sus out' the bog situation. Same item was decorated with a sign above the handle which I couldn't fully decode, the gist of which, however, was that the excrement release mechanism in the bowl was merely a trap-door which dropped the offending articles some 800 ft below on to the glacier. I gingerly pressed the handle with my boot and saw the reason for the caution sign as a wicket 'updraught' adorned the roof of the toilet. One of our fellow Brits was a little less cautious, however, and after a similar foray we saw him come back into the kitchen covered in shit! Approximately 30 of us sat in the kitchen, conversation being limited, when Roebuck produced the infamous 'Asda bag' full of goodies. Necks craned and lips drooled as tops were cracked and one old battered Froggy said, "You English are so stupide!" - "Piss off", said Roy and handed the booze round as we befriended everybody.

Our room was 8 ft. x 8 ft. and housed 36 bodies. Roy and I were parked between a wall and 5 Italians, after 30 minutes, Roy said, "Oi, Millington, get yer 'and off me balls!" - "It's not my hand", I replied, whereupon a deftly placed bone-crunching climbing boot swiftly dealt with an over-amorous Eytie shirt lifter amidst cries of "Mama mia. "Me bleeding 'and!", (it's times like that when Roy comes in handy - he's my hero really!).

4 a.m. - we kitted up and armed with 'Asda bags' full of empties, we set off for the Midi du Plan ridge. Snow conditions were very good, as was the visibility, but as we gained the start of the ridge and Chamonix lay sleepily sprawled out, 13,500 ft. below us the wind freshened and we decided to rope up for the traverse.

The next 3 hours were beautiful, not wanting to rush and taking in the beauty of the alpine dawn, we weaved around some of the most spectacular cornices and gendarmes when at 8.30 a.m. the Aiguille du Plan ridge came into view. "What did the book say?", queried Roy. "Er - avoid technical difficulties by taking obvious line right - I think?") I said.

We spent precious time looking for this obvious line but couldn't find it, (due to the fact that it was on the left). After much confusion and heart-stopping route-finding we saw the Bergschrund of the Envers du Plan Glacier.

We knew it was the correct glacier (which is unusual for our mapreading) the only problem was we were descending one of the "lesser used routes". No obvious foot prints and the sun was now very strong, one or two rocks whistled past as Roy and I stopped for a breather. Now, as I've said, Roy is a hard lad on rock, but doesn't like the white crunchy stuff, particularly when it's turning to white sloppy stuff. It was 11 a.m. "Let's get back on the rock and bivvy". "Bugger off", I replied. The idea of a 12 hour bivvy up there was not my idea of fun (and anyway, we were running out of fags!). I pushed on, too slowly for the liking of my mate who soon overtook me. The going was heavy as we weaved through seracs the size of double-decker buses. Roebuck halted at the start of a 20 ft. snow-bridge - a moment's pause, "Have a rope Roy" - "Don't think I'll bother", he says and started across. Just when it looked as though he was going to make it, the snow-bridge disappeared and so did Roebuck. "Wonder if I can have 'is tent?", I mused when I heard a muffled "Oi" from below as Roy tried talking with a mouthful of snow. Curiosity taking over I gingerly peered over the edge to see Roebuck straddled across a crevasse with his legs crossed, somehow, madly thrashing around with his axe. He managed to extricate himself. (I walked round!). By this time it was nearing midday. Crevasse after horrible crevasse was either jumped or traversed and then I noticed another party of French climbers on the opposite side of the glacier where we should have been. We pressed on downward and just what happened next is hard to recall but I saw four crampon points flash past my eyes in an upward direction. Whereupon my downward velocity increased rapidly. Automation took over as I braked with the axe to arrest the fall. However, I seemed to be braking in slush which had little effect on decreasing my speed but greatly deflated my ego as I landed with a sickening thud at Roebuck's feet.

"Lose it?", he queried. "Balls", I croaked, as I gasped for wind. The junction of the Envers glacier with the Mer du Glace is not the healthiest of places particularly at that hour of the day. However, it was the quickest and easiest way down to the Requins Refuge. At least the going became quicker because by now we were so gob-smacked that it didn't seem to matter anymore. At long last the Requins Refuge came into view as football-sized boulders chased us off the last of the ice. Beer at the hut (naturally)) and four weary hours later saw us back in Cham. after Roebuck was "buzzed" on the Mer du Glace by a rescue chopper whilst having yet another shit!

Postscript:

For littering of the Alps with empty beer tins and plastic carrier bags and falling off and shitting on moving glaciers thereby endangering other climbers (particularly one small Frenchman named Fred), Monsieurs Millington and Roebuck appeared before a special court in Chamonix, 4/5/81 before Monsieur le Justice I. Atebooze.

In view of their tender years and rough upbringing with the N.P.C. the court decided that they were not responsible for their actions and both were bound over and sentenced to spend a year with French 'Mothercare' and enrolled into their special 'Mountaineering for Morons' course which incorporates 'Pots for Tots' and 'Pinnacles for Piss Artist'.

Both Millington and Nesbit, Roebuck and Fred are doing well - the other students are pissed off.