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Ed Gamester
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Freelance adventurer, Champion of Murderbeers,
professional wrestler and super villain.
Creative writer, blogger, failed novelist,
rock vocalist, entertainment wrestler
and personal fitness trainer.
Profligate scamp, prone to bouts of flippancy
and ostentatious displays of daring and bravado.
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My main skills can be summarised as the Three Rs:
Rocking, Writing, Wrestling, Spelling and Counting.
If I had to describe myself in one word,
it would be 'unoutswashbuckleable'.
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Photos
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Uploads
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Sets
- 7 tracks (23:34)Some of Gay Bum's earlier music, from 2008. Ed Gamester on vocals, Michael Pumo on lead guitar, Phill Durham on guitar and Sam Davis on drums.
- 7 tracks (27:17)A live studio album featuring Ed Gamester on vocals, Michael Pumo on guitar, Will Gamester on bass and Dan Spiller on drums.
Recorded at Hill Valley Studios, High Wycombe in 2010
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Posts
- May 19, 13
24 years ago this very day, the Great Smith in the Sky forged my own Brother in Thunder, Emperor Matthias Bunn of Murderbeers.
With him, I have feasted, reveled and lifted for time immemorial.
Together with my Brother in Blood, William Billiam, we carved our path through the cities of Europe and danced through Thailand, to the song of Mr. Whiskey. Alongside my Brother in Iron, Simon Bunnslayer we drank and sang our way through to the mountains of Poland and discovered what it was to be as beast.
It was he who first uttered the name Murorga Sim Bowa which, for over a decade, has been the name under which I have performed all my wrestling shows.
It was he who permanently disfigured both my brother’s right hand (by slicing it open in a duel) and my own left hand (by breaking two of my fingers in a wrestling match).
It was he who named me Champion of Murderbeers, the title that has justified my drunken debauchery for the last two years.
It was he who led the way in my pilgrimage to see the Man Punching a Hydra and helped me drown my sorrows when we realised he was caged away.
The greatest gigs I have witnessed, he witnessed also. He even offered me his own bed whilst I trained in the noble art of lifting; a sacrifice I only realised the next day, after sleeping on the floor.
Over 24 years, he has seen me at my mightiest and lowliest both. And we have sung. Oh how we have sung.
It was in his honour, therefore, that I stepped up to the anvil today…and forged my first blade.
- May 16, 13
I don’t know if this is a real thing…but I think I might be exhausted.
It feels a bit like my body is shutting down; my legs aren’t working properly, every part of my lower back aches for reasons I don’t understand and the space between the roof of my mouth and my eyeballs feels like it is full of week-old rum and coke.
Any time I sit down, I fall asleep. Any time I get into bed, I lie awake and sleep for maybe 5 hours a night.
I do not feel entirely capable of withstanding even small bursts of activity. Life has become a clumsy, sticky-fingered God daughter and I, I am Jenga.
Hear me roar?
So anyway, today I attempted to climb Roy’s Peak; a modest 6-hour trek up to an elevation of 1578 metres. Upon reflection, this is 250 metres higher than Ben Nevis…but I don’t know its prominence, so that is largely irrelevant.
What is relevant is that I couldn’t do it. Or rather, I could have done it…but I didn’t. I just didn’t want to. I was bored; bored of spending my time in New Zealand walking around – normally on my own – for days and days for fucking scenic panoramic views.
It didn’t help that I got up too late for breakfast, so had to wolf down a hot crossed bun, a ham roll and a banana during the hour-long hike through the mists, to the foot of the mountain.
Along the way, I also accidentally grabbed hold of an electric fence and got the literal shock of my life.
Simply put, I wasn’t in the best state – mentally or physically – by the time I started the actual climb. After about half an hour, I was all out of grit; I had no more grit and no more shits to give. I was done.
So I sat down, drank a nutrient drink, ate another hot crossed bun and moped. I was frustrated. This should be a walk in the park; I should be running up this bloody mountain and bellowing my victory to the puny Gods of Wanaka themselves!
Instead, I felt sick and weak. The mere thought of spending another 6 hours trudging up and down wide, grassy paths for the sake of some more views was repulsive.
There just seemed nothing glorious about thoughtlessly plodding along a clear, wide track until I inevitably reached another predetermined ending point – along with everybody else with a day to spare in Wanaka.
Instead, I decided to cut my losses and massage my legs into shuffling the 90 minutes home instead.
That’s when I noticed where I was; at the bottom of a sheer face of grass and bracken.
Somewhere deep inside me, I felt something rekindle. Now there was a challenge…
2-hours later, I was at the top of a rock pile, overlooking Wanaka. I wasn’t as high as the people on Roy’s Peak, but I was the only one here. Granted, I was also caked in sediment, bleeding from a hundred thorns and mentally shaken from the near constant rock slides…
…but I was alone. Finally, I had done something that every man and his dog wasn’t doing casually every day. It wasn’t a hugely impressive feat, but it was a unique one – and that’s all that mattered.
Finally content, I looked out over the lake and mountains, ate my lunch (another ham roll, a second banana and some chocolate)…and fell asleep.
I know. It’s ridiculous.
Luckily for me, I woke up before too long and still had plenty of time to descend. Even so, I wanted to get home quickly, so I ran.
Quickly, because I had left the beaten path hours beforehand, I was soon lost. Luckily, when it comes to small mountains, one can figure out which way to go without great difficulty…down.
I’ve heard the quickest way down a mountain is to jump, but I had no parachute. So I took the second quickest way; I slid.
By this point, I’m fairly sure I had lost my mind ever so slightly.
Eventually, I made it to the bottom. Then there was just the hour’s walk back to town, which ended – as all good things do – with beer and cake.
Then I made some dinner, cleansed myself and went out drinking. I was home by 23:00.
I shall decide whether or not to stick around tomorrow when I wake up. After breakfast, maybe.
- May 15, 13
Nothing much happened today, friends. I got up, hitched a ride from Frankton to somewhere around Cromwell, and then another one from around Cromwell to Wanaka.
My first ride was in a bus, would you believe it? It was being driven by a fantastic old guy, who was driving three girls from the Kiwi Experience bus somewhere. He just let me jump aboard and spent most the ride telling me all the best things to do in the area. Amazing.
My second ride was with a lady who overheard my conversation about hitch hiking when I was buying coffee. When she saw me 30 minutes later by the side of the road, she just pulled on over, took me to the town and even drove me around to help me find a hostel.
Wanaka is truly beautiful, even by the standards New Zealand has thus far been setting.
There, I scaled Mount Iron and performed minor gymnastic feats, before running back to town.
I spent the evening walking around Wanaka, looking for something – anything – to do. I even walked out of town to the local gym, where the price of $20 per session made me feel a bit sick.
Then I returned to town and searched every shop for a sandwich-ice-cream. Eventually, I located one in a petrol station.
Then I went to my freezing cold bed in the YHA hostel.
That was about it!
- May 15, 13
Today, my hangover told me it was the 19th of May – the birthday of Emperor Matt Bunn.
(It is not the 19th of May. It is the 15th of May. I now realise this.)
To honour him, I took inspiration from a large group of tourists in town, who were taking it in turns to climb upon a decorative rock and stand on one leg for a photo.
So I scaled Mount Iron…and stood on one arm.
Thus, the Guild. Thus, the Hammer. Thus, Murderbeers.
- May 12, 13
Once I am out of Mossburn, I stop to catch my breath and readjust my backpack, which already weighs a ton.
My knees throb and the lunacy of attempting to run 22km in this condition has dawned on me. Still, at least I have made some good distance towards Five Rivers.
Casually I check my watch for my progress. I have been running for 10 minutes.
Oh shit.
Luckily, I consumed all my food and water whilst walking 130km through the mountains, so my pack is the lightest it has been all week.
Unluckily, I consumed all my food and water whilst walking 130km through the mountains…so I have nothing to sustain me on this run…and my legs are already like jelly.
Painful, painful jelly.
My boots are also falling apart, which isn’t helping my situation. All in all, for a man who has run 21km twice in his entire life, this is not going to be an easy afternoon.
By this point, however, the reality of the situation is irrelevant. This is not a time to wait by the side of the road, literally or metaphorically; if my meditations the day before meant anything at all, now is the time to prove it.
By instinct, I pop my thumb up every time a car drives past, just in case. Then I stop force myself to stop. They – the cars – had made their feelings quite clear. They will not help me and now I neither want nor need their help.
I have made my mind up; I will run to Five Rivers even if somebody offers me a lift. And I will make it to Queenstown.
In a haze of agony, the afternoon crawls by. All that exists are my legs, the white line of the roadside and the little marker posts every 120 paces. I cling to them for courage; I can run 120 paces…so I can run it again…and again…and again…200 times…
I will run to Five Rivers. I will make it to Queenstown.
Before long, the heels of my boots have worn through completely and stones are pouring in. I have noticed a new pain too; the bouncing of my bag is slowly rubbing the skin off my lower back…
It is irreverent; once a Guildsman gets going, nothing can stop him but death itself. Either that or a slight incline…
When I encounter uphill sections, I allow myself to run in intervals; 15 minutes run, 5 minutes walk. Quickly, this becomes 7 minutes run and 2.5 minutes walk…then 4 minutes run and 1 minute walk…
I will run to Five Rivers. I will make it to Queenstown.
Gradually, I realise my hands – clenched into fists against the various different pains – have cramped into position. I try to wipe some sweat from my brown – my hand comes away covered in tiny crystals of salt.
This does not bode well… I hope Five Rivers has a shop. Or a cafe! Or dinosaurs. I COULD RIDE A DINOSAUR TO QUEENSTOWN!
Suddenly, my eyes pick up some motion… Cars flashing past on the horizon. A bend in the road. A sign. Five Rivers? FIVE RIVERS!
I have made it! Highway 6! THE ROAD TO GLORY!
The first thing I notice is the cafe. It is shut. No sustenance for me. The second thing I notice is the silence. The total absence of traffic…or life…of anything to show settlement in Five Rivers whatsoever.
It is getting dark and it is getting cold. Unlike Mossburn, there is no village here to shelter me.
Guild Master. What hast thou doesn’t?
90 minutes later, it is pitch black. The only light is from my tiny head torch, which shines feebly out into the open road in a pitiful attempt to flag down the rare vehicles that pass every now and then.
Most are buses. None stop. None even slow down.
Every car that passes me gets a curse. Initially I mutter them under my breath, but very soon I am hurling them at their tail lights; what soulless bastard leaves a lone man freezing by the side of a main road in the middle of nowhere on a cold winter night?! What do they think I’m going to do?
…what am I going to do…?
Suddenly, in a blaze of indicators in the gloom, a car pulls over. It is a couple; they are heading the opposite way, but they notice how cold I am and offer to take me back down the road, from whence I came.
In fact, they are going to a party and invite me along!
……
I am freezing. What little energy my morning muesli put into my body after a week in the mountains is long gone and my body is not reacting well to being standing still after running 22km with a backpack on.
……
The warmth from their car is emanating from the open window, caressing my chilled fingers.
……
I have been out for 7 hours. This is the first and only car to stop.
……
Any port in a storm?
……
Gamester?! React, damn you!
…….
Finally, I hear my voice. “That’s very kind of you…but I’m going to Queenstown.”
Rule 2: No Looking Back.
I watch their lights until they disappear around a distant corner.
I will make it to Queenstown.
……
For another half an hour, I pace the side of the road to keep warm, waving my torch at the passing cars. I don’t even bother to watch them anymore – I am too tired.
Equally exhausted, my torch flickers and dies, but I punch it with a numbed fist and it comes back on again. My waving motions are becoming more frantic; perhaps somebody will think I am in danger…
Maybe I am in danger. I consider the situation as I reach my marker point and spin around to walk back along the road. That’s when I notice it.
A car. It has pulled over just 25 metres along the road! I must reach it!
I will my legs to work and, slowly, they obey. I hobble – shamble – forwards, yet the car gets no closer! Freezing, exhausted – I am moving in slow motion! The torch, tired of the abuse, finally dies. All is dark except the lights of the car. Does it know I am coming?! Please, don’t leave!
An eternity later, I drag open the door and stick my spinning head inside.
Again, I hear my voice: “Are you going to Queenstown? Yes? Can I jump in with…wait a minute, is that Turtle Neck and chain? That’s a GREAT album!”
I close the door behind me and Michael, a lovely man from Invercargill, rockets the remaining 100km to Queenstown to the sound of the Lonely Island.
I will make it back to Queenstown.
I have put the hike back in hitch hike…
I have also put the hitch back in hitch hike….
In Queenstown, I shower, eat noodles and drink heavily until 03:30, when I pass out ingloriously on a sofa.
Thus, the Guild.
- May 11, 13
Today, I shall hitch hike back to Queenstown from Te Anau, after a week of walking in the mountains.
Sarah and I have managed to get as far as Mossburn; I have jumped out at the turnoff for Queenstown and she has continued on to Dunedin, on her way back home to Candada.
So here I stand, on Highway 97, waiting for a ride. For two hours.
This is not a huge length of time in hitch-hiking terms, but perhaps ten cars have passed me in total. The statistics are obvious; there simply isn’t enough traffic for me – a bearded and angry looking man – to stand any chance of getting picked up. More to the point, I am bored.
Not a fan of standing still or turning back, I pull out a map and do some pondering. Quickly, I realise I am standing in a bad place, logistically speaking.
Only traffic coming from Te Anau will be taking Highway 97. All the other traffic, from Invercargill, Gore and maybe even Dunedin, will be taking Highway 6 – the main road to Queenstown.
If I can get to Highway 6, I will be thrice as likely to get a lift to Queenstown. That is to say, I will stand a slim chance….
Abandoning my post on the cursed Highway 97, I attempt instead to hitch a ride with the significantly larger number of cars driving down the road to the intersection with Highway 6. To me, this makes sense – I could realistically be waiting here all day otherwise.
Alas, not one miserable fucker will stop. Not one. That’s when I notice the sign.
Queentown: 117km || Five Rivers: 22km
I consult the map. Five Rivers is on the main road to Queenstown… Could I conceivably walk 22km?
No, that is nonsense. It is already 14:00, I am exhausted and laden with my backpack; I’d never make it before dark, which would make hitching a ride very difficult and VERY cold. I’d stay here and wait.
And wait. And wait…
Is it even possible for a thumb to ache? With every car that passes me by, my eyes drift back to the sign.
Car! What, no room in your empty SUV? Five Rivers, 22km. It’s on the main road…
Car! A shrug? What does that even mean?! Five Rivers, 22km. There’s no time to get there!
Car! Full. Fair enough. Five Rivers, 22km . I can’t hitch hike if nobody can see me in the dark!
Car! It’s a Jaguar… Hopeless. Five Rivers, 22km. That’s half a marathon…
The decision comes in a heartbeat. I shall give myself 30 minutes more of trying to catch a lift.
Then I will RUN to Five Rivers.
After all, what’s the point in being able to run a half marathon if, when a key destination is exactly 22km away, you don’t run there? Is this not the very purpose of fitness? Maybe…?
The minutes tick by with a grim inevitability.
14:05: Come on, people. It’s really not too much to ask.
14:16: All I want is a quick lift down the road…
14:22: Even I get to Highway 6, I’m going to have to hitch another ride…
14:27: Don’t make me run, you dickheads…
14:28: Seriously guys, I’m exhausted…seriously…
14:29: …guys…
14:30: Very well. Alea iacta est.
I shoulder my pack and set my jaw.
Thus, the motherfucking Guild.
- May 10, 13
Reading back, I realise I have been documenting my actions far more than my thoughts and feelings recently. Primarily, this is because I have been confused as of late; uncertain as to who I am and my position in life, let alone my ambitions and the progress I may or may not being making towards fulfilling them.
Having returned from a week in the mountains, however, I am enjoying the brief respite that follows exertion and removal from reality. As ever, I find fatigue helps me meditate and stay calm – two things that do not come naturally or easily to me.
Most the time, I hang in a state of awkward balance between feelings of unstoppable energy and crushing inferiority. Finding my mental balance is difficult. Maintaining it is virtually impossible, which is why my life lurches haphazardly from one reckless action to another, each an anchor from which I can hang my senses of self and pride, if only briefly.
When I do manage to find my balance, however, I become acutely aware of who I am; an entirely average man seeking desperately – albeit at times valiantly – to escape what he perceives as a mediocrity that he genuinely cannot survive.
This burger is called Big Al.
Although my Edventures are simply unremarkable escapes from what I perceive as a mundane existence, I need them more than I think people realise. Primarily, they help me maintain my fragile senses of independence, self worth and pride. Without them, my chances of lapsing back into depression are even greater and that – of all the things I fear – I truly cannot bear. Even in this moment, merely writing about it tightens my chest and brings tears to my eyes.
However, these feats of minor endurance and interest will only continue to hold value to me for so long. To quote the wonderful Alistair Humphries;
“The law of diminishing return applies to the joys of the wild, the rewards of enduring and the lessons of the road.”
Whilst trudging 130km through the mountains of Fjordland, I steadily came to a realistation. There will inevitably come a time when, in order to continue enjoying finding meaning in my life through these activities, I will have step them up a notch. To feel the same sense of pride and happiness, I will have to risk more, overcome more and – hopefully – gain more as a result.
Somewhere on Mount Luxmore (a suitably stunted peak) I realised that this time has come.
Unfortunately, at 26 years of age, I still have neither the skills nor the experience to engage in what I deem to be truly adventurous undertakings. This leaves me in a tricky situation. In order to grow as a person, I feel I must achieve greater things. In order to achieve greater things, however, I must first become capable of achieving greater things.
In order to improve myself…I must first improve myself to the point of being able to improve myself…
However I intend to achieve this, it may require some planning. Or it may require me to simply jump back into life, adventuring boots first. However I go about it, I can no longer rely on occasional breaks from reality to help me find value in my life; I must forge an existence that sustains itself – a life that I value based on its on merit.
I would like to end this unexpectedly confusing, serious and personal post with some words from Chay Blyth, the first person to sail single-handed non-stop westwards around the world.
When seeking funding for his attempt to circumnavigate the globe, Blyth’s motives were challenged by the press. He apparently responded thus:
‘One day Saint Peter will say to me, “What did you do with your life?” and I’ll tell him. Then he’ll ask you, “What did you do with your life?” and you’ll say, “I was a reporter”.‘
- May 06, 13
I’m going to be honest here. The Routeburn Track was a bit shit. The walk itself was clearly wonderful, but the weather was simply atrocious.
I had hoped to spend at least 3 or 4 days meandering through the mountain pass, having long lunches and taking lots of photographs. Instead, I practically scuttled my way along, steadily being drenched to the bone.
I had heard there was to be snow on the Saturday, but there was none. My dreams of crossing the mountain pass to the Great Divide in the falling snow melted like the snow that didn’t fall. If that makes sense. (It doesn’t – nonexistent snow cannot melt…presumably?)
In short, the Routeburn was nothing that I wanted it to be. Partly, this was because I spend the first day, which was clear, walking to the start of the bloody track, after only hitch hiking partway there!
So, after a day of drying off, I’m going back to the mountains for another four days. This time, I will climb higher than the clouds themselves! What’s more, Sarah is coming with me! Or I am going with Sarah…it was her idea, after all.
We are going to do the Kepler Track, which ascends Mount Luxmore in the Fjordland National Park.
This time, I WILL find snow.
You hear me, cruel Gods?
I WILL FIND SNOW!
The only downside is that all the rain has destroyed my camera lens. It is hopelessly soaked on the inside and will take no more photos of worth.
I shall try to persuade Sarah to share her photos with me. Her camera takes a mean panorama, or so I am told.
- May 05, 13
I wake upon the final day of the Routeburn Track and check my clothes. They are drenched. All of them.
Squishing myself back into my boots, I hit the road. I shall not be taking my time today. I shall be running, wherever possible – until I reach THE GREAT DIVIDE!
In reality, the Divide is just the end point of the Routeburn Track. But it will be great to get there!
The first thing i see, upon squelching out of the door of the hut is the lake. It was hidden in mist yesterday:
I am enjoying the trek, but the constant rain is making what should be a gorgeous experience into…well, swimming. On the plus side, I still have my cake! I shall devour it this day. I have that power.
FOR THE GUILD!
If I had to find up upside to all this rain, I’d point to the rivers and waterfalls. They are…surging.
Sadly, that is more or less all I have to say about this day of walking. In the end, I carried the cake for the full 32km and eventually ate it at the end of the walk…whilst standing in a lake.
Upon reaching the Divide, it transpires that Sarah is getting a lift home with the wizards…and Eva is driving them all! It is a small world. Being lovely people, they let me squeeze into the car and we are back in Queenstown in just a few hours.
Now. TO GET DRY!
- May 04, 13
I rise late in the Flats hut and break my fast on rye bread, whilst poring over a map of the area.
Today, I shall cross over the mountain pass at a leisurely pace, to take in the spectacular views and scenery. If there is a better way to spend a day, I haven’t found one…but it probably involves feast and fighting…in a mountain pass.
I set off at 10:00, intending to be at the next hut within the hour and my final destination by 15:00. Having slept in my thermal base layers, I decide to keep the leggings on beneath my Craghoppers for what I have been assured will be a chilly accent.
Twenty minutes later, I stop. What madness was this, wearing thermal leggings to climb a mountain? They are stuck to my legs with sweat and impeding every step. In rage, I remove my trousers and peel the leggings from my aching limbs.
Idicoy.
Sans-thermals, I set a far better pace up the mountain. Fifteen minutes later, however, the rain starts…and it does not end. For two days.
What is probably one of the most scenic and beautiful walks in the entire country (and, therefore, the entire world) quickly becomes a hazy blur – a mass of mist. The views, such as they are…are not.
On the plus side, I have come to understand the fuss about the ‘breathability’ of fabrics. When wearing my Shield jacket, I can run up a mountain and not necessarily overheat or get drenched in sweat. Slap on a cheap waterproof over the top, however, and it takes less than 5 minutes before I am living in an oven.
Breathable fabrics are covered in tiny holes; too small for a water droplet to get through, but plenty big enough to allow sweat droplets to escape (because they are much smaller than water droplets). Whn performing high-energy activities in the rain, these fabrics are invaluable.
I seek out some shelter for lunch. Just to clarify, I do not eat the shelter. I eat my lunch in the shelter. It consists of more rye bread and a Mars Bar.
An hour or so later, I come across two wizards fighting on the plain. They claim to be Gandalf and Saorman, but I know better. I assume I am hallucinating from the over-consumption of ham.
In the day huts, I discover a family who are celebrating the birthday of one of their young daughters. Delving into my bag, I offer her the slice of cake I have been carrying upon my person – intended for Guild photograph and a delicious Cake Break.
She politely declines. They already have a entire cake, which they will decorate at the next hut. Secretly, I am pleased.
THE CAKE IS MINE!
The next sign estimates 4 – 5 hours to the Mackenzie huts. The wizards inform me it is more like three. Two hours, then, as the Guildsman flies*.
Along the way, I try handstands balanced between two rocks. It is hard.
I set out at 13:00. At 15:00 exactly, I arrive at the hut. I am sodden, but punctual.
*Normally, a Guildsman’s Pace is exactly twice as fast as the average pace. In fact, a Guildsman’s anything is exactly twice the average. Rule 8: Everything Twice as Much.
- May 03, 13
The Road to Routeburn is largely uneventful. I chase a cow for a kilometre or so, until she manages to find her way back into her field. I expect she will now taste tainted…or something.
The scenery is magnificent for the entire walk, but I am aware that I am still unlikely to make the Falls hut by dusk.
I am also aware that six litres of water gets quite heavy in the hand after a few hours of walking. Luckily, there is a hut before the Falls called the Flats, which I might still make. I hope so, anyway. It is getting chilly and I am now ‘allowed’ to camp.
I reach the start of the Routeburn Track by 17:00. A sign informs me that the first hut is 1.5 – 2.5 hours away, which is an average time of 2 hours. That’s a Guildman’s Hour*, which is just as well because it will be dark by 18:00.
The first part of the track is beautiful. It is quite enclosed, but there are breaks in the trees to see the waterfalls and lakes, so I stop by one to take a drink and some photos.
Soon, however, I notice that the darkness creeping in so, with the exception of a quick detour to The Forge (which I am obliged by awesomeness to check out) I head straight for the hut.
Wherever that is…
18:30 arrives and the hut has yet to appear. I am surprised; clearly the unexpected 16km of extra walking has taken more of a toll on my body than I realise and slowed me to a mortal pace. It is getting very dark…
It is also getting cold. I break out my new Macpac Shield jacket and, immediately, am toasty warm. Nice work, Shield jacket!
A couple of times I spot what appear to be huts in the gloom, but these things turn out to be rocks, breaches or simple tricks of the mind. Hut-lucinations.
At last, a sign! I scurry towards it, my tiny £2.50 torch barely shedding enough light to see my feet on the ground. The sign reads: “Falls Hut, 1.5 – 2.5 hours”. It seems I must have walked straight past the first hut some time ago…
Realistically, I have no choice but to continue; Rule 2: No Looking Back. Not that I have a choice – I cannot see my hand in front of my face without the ‘torch’.
In desperation, I sweep my light over the surrounding area…and that’s when I see it. A second sign. It reads “Flats Hut, 5 minutes”.
I have made it.
Excluding stoppages, it took an hour from the start to the first hut. This is good news. I have kept up the Guildsman’s Pace – twice as fast as…expected.
Dinner is dehydrated cottage pie. It is oddly delicious. Sleep comes quickly and last hours. 12 hours…
*To work out a Guildsman’s pace, take the average expected time and half it. Rule Nine: Everything Twice As Much
- May 03, 13
This is not how I imagined starting my three day hike through the glorious mountain pass of the Routeburn Track. Having hitch hiked my way from Queenstown to Glenorchy, I have been walking ever since…
It is about 26km to the start of the track. I have 19km left.
The day is passing too quickly for my liking. I shout to Sköll to slow his pace; Árvakr and Alsviðr could do with a rest… He pays no attention. Bloody wolves; at this rate, I won’t even make it to the very first hut before dusk – maybe not before nightfall.
Sometimes, it is tough being a Guildsman. Still, at least there is the scenery:
Suddenly, a rumbling. A waterfall? A stampede of brahmin? Is Fenrir breaking free of his chains?
RAGNAROK IS UPON US!
Ah no. It is a car!
I stick out my thumb on a whim and, at the last moment, it pulls over. A little old lady called Margaret beacons for me to hop in. I am ashamed to say the honour of the Guild doesn’t even enter my mind – I am saved!
Margaret covers about 10km, telling me all about the stunning surrounding scenery. Apparently, this is Mordor! I resolve to storm the Black Gate, should I stumble across it.
Alas, the end of my ride comes too soon – at the end of the sealed road. I remember from a map on a wall that the unsealed road to the Routeburn is 9km long. It is 15:15… It is going to be a long day.
- May 03, 13
Today, I shall start the Routeburn Track; 32 beautiful kilometres through the mountain pass between the Aspiring and Fjordland National Parks. I do not yet know how I’m getting there. I’m sure it will work out.
As it turns out, a lovely Canadian girl called Sarah from my hostel is doing the same thing, but she has found some people on Couch Surfers to give her a lift. Just before I leave, I discover that a friend of mine in Queenstown, Eva, has also just returned from dropping one of her friends off at the Routeburn track too!
Madness. A bus to the track and back will cost me $160!
There are some things in life for which one has to pay. Ferrying oneself to a walking track and back again, however, is not one of them. I resolve, therefore, to hitch hike. I wil make it there and back for free, or not at all.
THUS THE GUILD!
First, however, I need to do some shopping. I have heard there is neither food nor water along the route, so I buy the following:
A loaf of rye bread
Some shredded ham and chicken
Three smalls pies
Two dehydrated meals – cottage pie and lamb with vegetables
Two Mars bars
Six litres of water
A slice of cake (naturally)This should suffice for three days and could stretch to four if I spend longer than expected taking bleak and honouable photographs. I will be eating a lot of bread and ham, however. Thus the Gamesters.
Half an hour with my thumb in the air gets me a ride from Queenstown to Glenorchy, the nearest village to the track. My ride is in a small blue van with an excellent man named Charlie, who runs an open mic night in Queenstown every Tuesday. I hope to be back in time for the next one!
Now I am in Glenorchy, the hitch hiking is slim. It is 26km from the start of the track… It looks like my Routeburn adventure has just doubled in distance. Ah well.
THUS THE GUILD! AGAIN!
- May 02, 13
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Info
- Summary
I am a copywriter. I bend words to my will and express complicated ideas in simple ways. This makes people feel intelligent and act in a predetermined manner, typically of my clients' choosing.
More specifically, I clearly communicate the benefits of a product or service to a specific target audience, to motivate them to act in a certain way.
Currently, my clients range from global corporations and marketing agencies, to individual London-based hotels and restaurants. For these brilliant companies, I write everything from concise magazine adverts, straplines and marketing emails, to entire websites, blogs, case studies and white papers.
As befits my profession, my standards of written English are exemplary and I am renowned for hitting deadlines, no matter how much they beg for mercy. I'm also disarmingly organised, but in a way that looks a lot like being totally disorganised.
Outside of work, I am an adventurer, a wrestler and a failed novelist. I am also a constant drain on the creative cosmos, which I pillage from time to time whilst drunk and singing songs about being even more drunk.
I would apologise for what I am, but I took a vow to regret nothing and I am a man of my word. In fact, I am a man of many words. I am a copywriter.
Specialties: Copywriter, Content Writing, Article Writing, Blog Writing, SEO, Exercise and Fitness Training, Marketing, Personal Training, Research, Newsletters, Performance and EntertainmentExperience- Jun 2012 - PresentRed Herring / Herring
I am the founder and main creative writer of Herring, the absolute greatest collective of copy and content writers on the planet.
Within the group, I am the Red Herring and specialise in gonzo, alternative and abstract work. I am typically involved in creative writing projects, but turn my hand to corporate work whenever necessary.
- Jul 2011 - PresentChampion / Murderbeers
I am the Champion of Murderbeers; the world's first and only glory-based micro-brewery.
My role involves promoting and marketing Murderbeers, using a clever marketing campaign here and well-placed head-butt there.
Sometimes I hold meetings and confer with designers. Other times I invade small nations and raze castles to the ground. Whatever is necessary to make my point.
- Jan 2011 - PresentCreative Director / Caveman Press
I am the Creative Director of Caveman Press; a creative collective, primarily based in the South East of England.
We bring together writers, artists, breweries and bands - anyone and anything we feel will add to our ongoing quest to make our little world a better place.
- Feb 2008 - PresentSinger of Gay Bum / Self Employed Musician
I am the singer and front man of the UK's greatest satirical alternative folk rock, post-punk band.
We have played hundreds of gigs all over the UK and recorded a bizarre collection of songs, which can be found scattered around the internet or on my website: edgamester.co.uk
- Sept 2007 - PresentWriter / Freelance
Copy writing is my main profession and the area in which I have most experience. For more information, please see my main profile overview.
In short, I write blogs, articles, newsletters, websites, interviews, profiles - whatever people want or need me to write.
In fact, sometimes I just write for fun and burn my work under the full moon, to the sounds of 1954's Sh-Boom ( Life Could Be A Dream) by The Chords.
- Dec 2010 - Jun 2012Creative Copy Writer / Causeway Technologies
Causeway is a global technology company and the UK's leading provider of software for the design, construction and maintenance of highways and buildings.
Whilst working for Causeway, I was their Creative Copy Writer and general content manager. I was responsible for all printed and digital content, including web content, case studies, white papers, product brochures, news stories and social media.
I performed this role for 18 months before leaving the company for personal reasons. In short, I don't like wearing a suit and wanted to spend less time in offices and more time roaming the lands, having adventures.
Education-
2005 - 2008University of Leeds2.1 Bachelor of Arts Degree in Philosophy
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1998 - 2005Royal Grammar School, High Wycombe
Additional Information-
Websites:
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Honors:Company of the Year 2011 Superbrand of the Year 2011 eCommerece Product of the Year 2011 DADI Awards 2009: Beset SEO Campaign DADI Awards 2009: Best PPC Campaign Surface Unsigned Festival 2010: Semi-Finals
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Interests:Feasting, revelling and adventure. Vikings, beer and weaponry. Rock music, feats of strength and exercise. Video games, writing and singing. Fighting, climbing and riding my motorbike.
