Subterranean Banter Blues

[Taylor]

A cut and paste from the daily column of a Sports writer:

SUBTERRANEAN BANTER BLUES

THOSE OF YOU WHO HANG UPON these columns as once people did to Flash Gordon serials will doubtless be keen to know how my newly declared career as a caver is going. Well, to be succinct, it’s not.

Frankly, I had no idea caving would be quite so complicated. I imagined, once vetted and allotted a spot on the squad, that we would all meet around some secluded depression in the local woods and light up the torches and descend into the Earth. I realise that any talk in the last column about underground oceans, log rafts and discovering races of Amazon women in fur bikinis that worshipped all men as Gods was pushing the imagery a bit — at least in the Lewisham area — but I hadn’t foreseen all the red tape involved in caving today. For example, did you know there was a toe-curling Caver’s Slang Lexicon that must be learnt by heart? Well there is.

God, I hate sports that employ banter. Cavers seem to have a whacky vocal alternative for every eventuality. Brace yourself for some of these — they’re pretty ripe I warn you. Take the caver’s helmet. Surely one of the most mundane pieces of all caving equipment. Well this is referred to as “the brain bucket”. At the other end of the scale, in that I have no idea what either description means, there is the Carbide Pig : “A length of knotted car inner-tube used for carrying carbide in descent. Also known as piglets if made from bicycle inner-tube — often pink.”

Then there’s Chair Sucker. “Chair Sucker” (rope sucker, stove sucker, etc.) — one who uses someone else’s gear while the other person is preoccupied with something else. “I got up to get something to eat and someone sucked my chair!” Cratering: Too fast a rappel ending with too quick a stop. “Put a knot in the end of the rope or ya’ might crater!” I mean, what? And yes I looked down the list to see if “rappel” might be explained, but nothing doing.

All those exclamation marks too. Guaranteed, any gathering of men who talk in sentences that require exclamation marks is a gathering of men who need pushing off a cliff. Here’s a few more terms you need to master before any subterranean sauntering.

Doing a Neil: Local South Wales Caving Club term, for a keen caver trying his best to overtake people to get to the front of a party.

Sporting: Implies a positive image of a challenging, muddy cave. “It’s a sporting cave!”

Nerd Gate: A natural, but overcomeable barrier in a passage that prevents wimps from going any farther into a cave. “Don’t panic — it’s just a nerd-gate!” Had enough? I thought so. Dear me, what a terrible disappointment. I had no inkling that cavers were such dreadful bantering bores. Call me naive — or a “cardboard” to use their word — but once my party got submerged, I had simply imagined a spooky ethereal silence tinged with awe, only occasionally punctuated by the sound of a few drips. Oh hang on . . .

www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,23530-2048559,00.html

[L Roebuck]

Would he be a blast to take caving?

[Sharon Faulkner]

SUBTERRANEAN BANTER BLUES sounds like a good title for a song in the NSS Cave Ballad Salon. ;D

[Taylor]

I was hoping to find the next edition to read how the following phase of the author's caving went, but I must have missed it. Yep, he'd be a fun one to take caving. ;D

It would make a good song title, didn't think of that, but then I don't sing.

[L Roebuck]

lalala ..... I sing ....... but you probably don't want to hear me.

First, the song needs to be written. How's this for a start?

Got the Subterranean Banter Blues.....
That's what comes when you pay your dues

Probably not the best beginning lyrics for a song, eah?

[Brian Roebuck]

I Got the Subterranean Banter Blues.....
That's what comes when you pay your dues
If ya think caver slang's perplexin'
Then your wimp gland's a flexin
And your Beta Skis are good for dry caves too

next verse ??

[Taylor]

I'll have to leave the songwriting to those more talented in that arena, but here is the second installment and possible end to this fellow's research into caving.


RIDING ON THE UNDERGROUND
The Times March 20, 2006

TO BE HONEST, I HAD HOPED TO LET MY suddenly declared passion for caving quietly die a death in these pages. Frankly, the whole faddish fortnight is a source of no little embarrassment at parties. “Ah, Baker,” they say. “Still caving, are we? Still insisting pot-holing will outshine the World Cup this summer and the smart set are all to be found underground these days, what?” Of course I never said such things, but when one has painted such a glaring target on the seat of one’s trousers, one must be big enough to bend over and let others swing a boot at it. I know I would, had the other Danny declared he was over soccer and investigating hot-air ballooning or something.

Thankfully, though, not everybody who follows this column is tugging my beard and calling me a horse. I will briefly return to the subterranean this week to acknowledge the letter from Phillip Gardiner, of Stroud, who is, at least, treating part of my observations about caving with near respect. Sadly for the many “serious” cavers who sent outraged e-mails about misrepresenting their sport, it is the observations about lost oceans and fur bikini-wearing tribes of Amazonian women that Phillip wishes to endorse.

Writes Phillip: “As a fellow caver, I want to tell you about an incident some years ago when I was deep in Clearwell Caves in the Forest of Dean. (We) were inching along a passage hitherto unknown to us when, in the gloom, four figures could be seen standing across the way. They stood motionless and eerie and seemed to be awaiting our arrival.

“Getting closer, we could make out that they were tall, apparently female and, as we approached, we noted they comprised of three blondes and a brunette, all with arms outstretched toward us. I know it sounds exotic, but we were absolutely paralysed with fear. Were we dreaming? Hallucinating? This was in an unmapped underground chamber far, far beneath the Earth’s surface.

“It was my friend Al who got close enough to shine his headlamp on to one of their faces and thus illuminate the ghastly inhuman open mouth immediately identifying them as ‘adult’ blow-up dolls. Well, this should have been a relief, funny even, but I promise you, as one man, we screamed and scrambled our way as fast as possible back down the passage we had just so carefully negotiated. We eventually got back up into the clear fresh air above and sat on the grass breathless and shattered.”

A terrific tale, Phillip, and possibly enough for me to make one last descent, following in your own footsteps. I could retrieve one of these mannequins, dress it as myself and send it to the various gatherings where I am expected to be an Aunt Sally for others simply because of my caving craze.

There it will stand in a dark corner and absorb the barbs and abuse of all the assembled wits and wags, offering little by way of any comeback. “Baker’s a bit quiet tonight, eh, Kelly? Mortified, I suppose. Still, if a bloke will make such damn silly announcements, what? Caving indeed! Now then . . . about this balloon of yours . . .”

What do you think?

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www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,4-2093890,00.html