WARNING!!!! - This article may contain flash photography and is and has a loud report. Do NOT enter this site unless you are in possession of a certified sense of humour and have mislaid any taste for quality literature. No responsibility is taken for any consequences brought on by readers laughing too much (or too embarrassingly).
So, many hundreds of unsuspecting victims (numbered for the later identification of their mortal remains) are herded aboard innocent-looking buses in Inverness and driven with armed escort through the dreich and unwelcoming terrain to their uncertain futures. As the convoy turns off the main highway south onto a narrow and dangerous trackway, the victims fear the worst. The safety and security that lies beyond the stone edifice that is Adrian's may never be seen again. Local inhabitants shiver behind closed animal skins in their rough and ready shelters, not daring to see so many going to their painful destiny. Flashing lights on the escort vehicles only add to their fearfulness. How glad they are that such a fate does not lie in wait for them this Sabbath morn.
All too soon, the convoy slows as it passes the elements of the temporary camp set up to process this latest batch of victims. Guards with yellow clothing identify themselves as the cruel enforcers of The Organiser's will. At a single command, the victims are cast out into the dreich and horrible conditions to see for themselves what fate had decreed. Some attempt an immediate escape into the surrounding countryside but soon realise that the hostile terrain is only good for relieving themselves upon - so do so shamelessly, men and women alike with only despair in their hearts. Some cling to one another; some quietly queue for the blue boxes wherein lies temporary relief and the possiblility of asphyxiation to bring a swifter end to their misery. Women follow men follow women follow more women follow more women until the blue boxes themselves screech for relief. All to no avail as stomachs knot, bowels clench and bodies shiver. The Final Terror, anticipated by many during at least sixteen weeks of cruel preparation, has finally arrived. Can Death be any worse?
Then, before ears can be properly covered, the worst sound of all. Drowning out the howling and piteous cries of the victims as they seek shelter and pain relief in the tiny blue boxes, a fearsome gang of skirling storm troopers assails the air with its raucous and savage war cries. Dressed in the uniforms worn by local men and women troopers alike, this group of feared assassins, each weighing nearly 50Kgs each (that's eight stones in old money), march triumphantly through the victims to stamp their mark on each one's psyche. Terror indeed before the pain to come.
And so the victims are herded out of their blue boxes, rounded up from their attempt to escape into the surrounding countryside under the guise of a simple call of nature and pushed willy-nilly towards the start of their ordeal. Both willies and nillies shiver. The Leader of the Persecutors barks at them through a power-assisted loudhailer and explains. As a generous gesture from The Organiser, those who have paid the demanded bribe will be given the chance to escape to Freedom. A gun will be fired. Someone may be shot. But it will be a signal that the victims can make their bid for Freedom down the narrow road ahead.
Can this be a trick when reality will lead to a painful and lingering end? Mostly unbeknowns to the victims, "Freedom" is relative. Successful escapees will be required to drink thick glutenous material and consume local taste-free 'biscuits' together with material cooked inside a sheep's stomach. And drink local liquids kept in cellars for who knows how many years whilst it no doubt rots into the colour of human waste. Foreign victims, brought to the area by wicked capitalists who do not stop at forcing their victims to pay exorbitant bribes just for proferring plastic in payment, are told by local victims that such material is highly regarded both in its country of origin and around the world. And this unappetising-sounding fare is celebrated by locals and ex-patriots and admirers of such produce every year once Christmas and the New Year has been safely passed. Some dead bloke's birthday is used as the excuse to get completely frazzled again. Unimpressed by this intelligence, the victims become aware that the sound of many knees knocking has started to drown out the skirling.
As the Old Git ambles aimlessly around, he hears his name called. Who knows he's here, he wonders? Turning round as the better option to standing there trying to guess, he espies two lovelies from his gang at the Internment Camp. They await their turn at the blue boxes and are desperate for distraction. He wanders over and distracts them. Has the Old Git seen any other members of the gang? Does he have any words of elderly wise advice? Does he know if the blue boxes are all still functioning? Does he care? The answer in all cases is 'No'. They fall silent. He awaits their blue box moments and agrees not to record any aspects (as has been known elsewhere). He unusually keeps his word.
The Old Git and the two lovelies wander towards the baggage train. Here, the Organiser promises to keep the victims possessions safe until they are able to reclaim them at the site of their Freedom. The Old Git is suspicious; this has a dark and evil resemblance to promises made to others elsewhere. The lovelies laugh and tell him he is a daft old illegitimate and persuade him to part with his only warm clothing. He wonders if he will live to regret this decision. He wonders if he will live. But they are lovelies, so what could possibly go wrong when a male listens to female siren voices?
But then - the Start is delayed! Did this mean there is a stay of execution? Has the Organiser decided to return the victims whence they came? No. It is but a cruel trick to keep the victims milling around in the cold and the wet for the further amusement of the well-clothed guards. And how they laugh as small females and large males alike try to keep some small parts warm. Some have more success in this than others. Guards leer as the drenching rain provides interesting patterns on female clothing.
Then it is the dreaded countdown. The Organiser's man on the loudhailer accordingly tries to rearrange a jumble of letters into a coherent sentence - but fails. Victims try to rearrange their numbers into the secret combination - but fail. From the powerful loudhailer pours incomprehensible jabber as victim after victim is named and taunted to try his or her luck at the forthcoming escape. Oh cruelty! Carol Vorderman, where are you now?
Suddenly, it's 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1 - GO!!! Bang!! (Don't say you weren't warned that this was a loud report.)
The Great Escape is on. Victims pour out into the countryside and follow the trail of increasingly soggy and vanishing breadcrumbs left out to guide them back. The Organiser cunningly secretes his own people amongst the victims to pretend that escape is real and that pain is imagined. His people race on ahead and out of sight whilst the real victims struggle onwards through the mist. Young and old. Male and female. 48 nationalities the loudhailer proudly hails loudly. All doomed. A veritable United Nations diaster unfolds. If only those nice young men in blue helmets would appear.
Some victims will never make it. Vehicles painted in a reassuring white and red colour scheme mistakenly lead a few poor victims into thinking that relief from pain lies inside. Instead, only humiliation beckons as other victims pour past thinking they are the lucky ones. This could be a long bad Sunday.
HIdden amongst the victims is an Old Git. He knows it is he because his 'friends' have tattooed it on his back and on all his clothing. Others smirk at the name but he won't have it. He stays healthy as he surrounds himself with a no-smirking zone. And this is his chance to escape to Freedom. His chance to run and become - something. Swift of thought as always, he realises that his opportunity lies amongst the least fortunate of the victims. He cunningly hides himself amongst the laggards and the sloths as they fall away at the tail of the snake that is growing along the shores of the Beastly Lake. Tales are told of slithering creatures inhabiting the lake that come out at the bidding of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to attack and consume innocent humans. None alive has seen The Beast but many know it to be there - just waiting. We are all on guard. Some even try to take photographs. But not, this time, our Old Git (whose camera isn't waterproof).
Cruelly, the Organiser has marked up how far the victims have to travel to reach Freedom; every mile (that's 1.6km for those readers unable to cope with these last vestiges of Imperial Rule). Thankfully, as the pain increases, the realisation of the distance to Freedom diminishes until all is just a haze of chemicals. But this is for the future. The far future. For now it is just the next mile that matters.
Sadistically, the Great Escape starts downhill. Unthinking victims race onwards and burn the very fuel they will need in the hours to come. The Old Git is wiser. He ambles. He jogs. He concentrates. His amazing capacity for mental arithmetic ensures he can work out how far it is still to go at each mile marker; many cannot and race on at an unsustainable pace for which they will pay dearly as the sun sinks towards the West.
Still the rain falls. Mile One. Mile Two. Mile Three. An opinion is voiced near the Old Git that hail will surely fall. Nearby victims are cheered by this innocent stupidity and laugh loudly at the source of the opinion. She falls silent. The Old Git ponders. Others are just ponderous. As Mile Four threatens to arrive, the witch predicting hail has her incantations answered and indeed the victims find themselves in the midst of a ferocious hail storm and suffer tiny bouncing white ice balls across their already-suffering feet. Thankfully, the witch's spell is a weak one and the hail quickly gives way to cold rain. Thankfully - yeah.
By now, the bus-loads of victims has strung out to a colourful string snaking its way across the verdant area that lies atop the lake's craggy limits. Small hamlets are passed as the local inhabitants bravely overcome their fear and watch as the victims parade past. Some jeer and shout in a pretence of encouragment but the victims know the reality and largely ignore these cruel sounds. As a Master of Irony (Upper Second), the Old Git cheerfully acknowledges these cries with a hearty 'Thank you' and 'Your turn next year' as he passes. He is not fooled.
Time passes - but few other victims now pass the Old Git. He is starting to pass some of those who unwisely rushed down the early hill. He is in danger of succombing to smugness but keeps this emotion in firm check in favour of gritted teeth and gritted energy bars that he secreted about his person before leaving the Departure Camp. A short sharp incline in the road brings further misery to some - but not yet the Old Git. Those months of suffering on the hills alone, cold and miserable but determined are paying a small dividend. Very small.
Soon the second short sharp rise signals the nearness of the place where the world's cinemas and theatres have for decades sought their entrance designs and materials. Other scoff but Foyers is not French after all. But we pass by on our quest to reach Freedom, unimpressed by local achievements. We are now in the territory of The Beast. We shiver, even though the rain has now thankfully stopped. We are fearful and wonder at the bravery of those who come from far and wide to seek out The Beast. It becomes clear they are not brave - just stupid. Many purchase knick-knacks that purport to represent The Beast - the one that no living soul has seen. Who in China knows what it looks like that they can make such stuff? We are not interested in such matters; Freedom is our only goal.
Through tiny community after tiny community we struggle - but it's useless. We'll never get the pronunciation of their names right. Men with huge army rucksacks on their backs are passed as they pretend to be part of the escape plan. We do not know what might be in their sacks but we are afraid to guess. One swift burst of gunfire would bring down a whole generation of Freedom-seekers. We hold our breath (well, we don't manage this actually) and hope we're wrong. We pass safely. There is no following cascade of metal travelling at high velocity. Perhaps it waits up ahead. We press on.
Suddenly - there is the sign that says 'Half-way'! Actually, it doesn't but the Old Git's arithmetical genius realises that 13 miles is probably about there. If the sign is true. If. We grab water proferred by local missionaries (probably from China) and hope that there are no Beastly frights awaiting. As long as there is someone near me who runs more slowly than me, thinks the Old Git, I should be OK. The Beast can have them whilst I escape. Possibly.
A brief gap in the untamed undergrowth and overgrowth allows the Old Git to see what he knows to be Urquhart Castle. In the deeps nearby is rumoured to be the Lair of The Beast. We shiver again, this time in sunshine so we know we really are scared. We do our best to hurry on and reach the relative safety of Dores. It is the only one yet is more usually referred to as "a Dores" by those who love it. Locals are very strange.
Many long years ago, a road builder known by the courtesy title of 'General' came through the area and built a road. He was not qualified to do anything else. Regrettably, he also pocketed a large part of the fee he was paid that was scheduled for the building of a deep cutting (or even a tunnel) towards the north-east. This failure has resulted in there being a long hill along the road in that direction instead of comfortable flat access for horse-drawn carriages and foot travellers to the sea. His wickedness shall not be forgotten by the victims today as the dreaded Hill of Dores looms.
The Old Git smiles. He grasps the bottle of 'water' proferred by one of the missionaries but decides it may be contaminated by human waste so wisely does not partake. One of The Organiser's photo goons spots this and records the scene. Perhaps the Old Git has unwittingly gained The Organiser's approval. Perhaps Freedom awaits. Perhaps.
So to the Hill of Doom. Another victim asks "Is this the hill?". The Old Git confirms this dreaded news. The questioner falls back in despair and disarray. The Old Git plods on, maintaining what is technically known as a 'run', albeit his speed seems to suggest otherwise. He enters the nursery slopes of the Hill with determination in his soul, who-knows-what in his bottle and socks in his shoes. All is ready for the assault. He goes for it.
Around the first bend he labours; but still he runs. Up ahead, he sees many victims walking. In fact, he can't see that any of them are running but instead all are walking. Can he be alone in using this technique to conquer the hill? He concentrates on getting both feet off the ground at the same time, albeit for a fraction of a second. This will enable him to confirm to the watching goons that he is indeed 'running'. He hopes they will be pleased with him. Mid-way up the hill, one of the goons (clearly more important since he has his own vehicle and is not sharing it with anyone else) shouts out what seems like encouragement. Unfooled, the Old Git merely smiles and maintains his technique. He is determined. The false summits on this hill will not deter him from achieving a 'ran it all the way' sticker from the lovelies at Freedom's door. The thought of them spurs him on as he passes walker after walker - so many indeed that shortbread seems imminent.
The slope of the road starts to diminish. It diminishes some more. It reaches a crescendo of diminuendo. The road is flat! The Hill of Doom is conquered by an Old Git! Surely future generations will erect a small blue plaque to mark the event. The Old Git is hopeful; he likes erections and has many photographs of them from around the world.
Can Freedom now be far? Can that sound dimly heard in the far distance be the noise he has been so desperate to hear? The sound of laughing from joyous victims as they reach Freedom and cry out their joy.
He is distracted by another victim passing him. She is clearly desperate and distraught, conditions that have given wings to her feet and ugliness to her face. The Old Git plods on. He knows. Sure enough, she slows and walks. The Old Git passes her. No words of encouragement does he utter. Just that distant look that tells of a brain focussed on the achievement of a lifetime. He may be old enough to be disposable but he intends to be seriously hard to flush down the pan today. Let others be the effluent of the human race; it is only this race - to Freedom - that matters to the Old Git. Save your soluble paper for others, he seems to say - I am indissoluble.
The natural terrain gives way to the hand of man. Buildings spring up as if from nowhere and crowds surge forwards to see the Old Git as he enters the final phase of the dash for Freedom. He doesn't dash. He is patient. He keeps to his schedule and plods on. He knows he could look flash and run like a gazelle towards the bag ladies but declines this Devil's temptation in favour of modest gentleness along the riverside that leads to Freedom. He hears the ever-increasing volume of sound from Freedom Park and smiles inwardly whilst outwardly maintaining the fiction that he is on his last legs.
Running continues. He will run all the way. He will triumph. He will have his Freedom.
From the other side of the river, he sees that the Organiser has another of his photo goons stationed to capture final images of near-death. Unwilling to be a disappointment to the Organiser, he reluctantly adopts what he believes to be the correct persona for the final few hundred metres to the finish. He is relieved afterwards to find he struck just the right note between life and death - still alive but heading fast for death. He is not quite sure that the photo goon completely captures his amazing physique at its peak of photogenic excellence but accepts that life is rarely perfect. A little light retouching on the computer will cure all that.
And so Freedom is achieved. Quietly squirting a dose of fluid up his shorts, the Old Git poses for a final revealing photo before visiting the bag ladies for his bag and T-shirt that remind him he is only free on licence. He may (subject to witness statements to the contrary) have run all the way, he may have reached Freedom quicker than ever before in his life (styled a 'PB' - or 'Properly Beggared' - by his admiring friends), he may have passed many other victims whose fate is now unknown - yes, he may. We'll never know for sure.
So five hours, five minutes and 42 seconds after leaving the dreich and wind-swept uplands on his dash for Freedom, the Old Git finally walked. Then sat. Then lay down. Then slept. But sleep does not bring relief; he can't forget. The memory of the other victims who could not do as he did haunts him. He must avenge them. He must do this again. He must be chucking nuts.
No wonder his 'friends' know him as the Old Git.
