On The Edge 1 (1987) | Magazine
SIGN OF THE TIMES
'It is utterly impossible to persuade an Editor that he is nobody.' – William Hazlitt.
Why Hazlitt? Easy, that one. A moment ago I was sitting on my front porch in that tangle of streets squeezed between Rusholme and the Stockport Road, listening to David Bowie saying 'Thank you, thank you,' and hearing the sounds bounce and rattle round the houses like some monstrous, apocalyptic Big Brother taking a bow. Hence Orwell, hence Hazlitt.
But back to Apocalypse; 1987, in climbing terms, had 1984 potential. First the exhausting wait for Extreme Rock ended and leaving aside the inspiring photography and interesting essays, it could have been Diadem's answer to Newspeak. Instead we have the impression that they're a little bewildered by it all. There are no propaganda condemnations of the state of play, no impassioned pleas for calm, just . . . bewilderment.
Then there are the proposals from the BMC for assessment of single-pitch rock climbing instructors which admittedly send every self-respecting rock jock into a stupor of indifference but which have been heralded as a fundamental attack on our personal liberty. In reality they turn out to be rather innocuous and even, dare I say it, helpful.
Finally we have those twin sisters of Beelzebub, competitions and bolts, bearing down on us threatening utter destruction, but which seem to remain largely south of Paris. So where's the worry?
Before you roar your disapproval at my apparent indifference and reach for your pens, I'll finish what I've started.
During last autumn, a certain magazine editor claimed that British rock climbing was dead, that my generation had destroyed 'that fragile flower' and that we might as well all go and live in Buoux. Ignoring for the moment the arrogance of the idea that the past is perfect and the present rotten, I find from personal experience and from talking to people who still bother to climb that British climbing is fit and well and living in Hope Street.
That is not to say that everything is in good order. Of course competitions are a sinister and frightening and real possibility and they need fighting tooth and nail. Of course bolting could castrate our climbing tradition but giving up the fight by not representing the views of those who are pushing back the barriers now, in 1987 and not 1977 or 1967, is hardly a step in the right direction. We need a medium at the front line not generals ten miles behind the trenches. We need purpose. We need direction. Welcome to On The Edge.
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