March on the Moors Part 3

    The final part of the Ten Tors Trilogy. I wrote this in late 2011 and early 2012 so since then it's gone through various levels of editing. It's probably the work I am most proud of, but unless you've done Ten Tors you may not feel the emotion in it.

     The fellow competitors in the challenge could drive you to suicide too, if you let them. I found that there were two classes of hikers on the event. The first consisted of hikers from the schools surrounding Dartmoor, people who walked two hundred and twenty-seven miles to school every morning, people with names like Hugo Morcambe who did hiking for fun. These people were purely in it for the competition. If you couldn’t win, why take part? Their fathers spent thousands on first class education, and a team made of these lads would make the A-Team look as manly as the Spice Girls. The other class I found were those poor people who, given their own free will, would sit at home all day and watch ‘Take Me Out’, ‘Big Brother’ and ‘Biggest Loser’ until they themselves would have to enter one of those programmes. Probably the latter. These lost souls had been forced into action by neglectful parents, thinking that they could possibly make an honest person out of them by getting them to drag their heels through the doldrums of Dartmoor. These people were easily recognised by the Ghetto Blasters tied to the smallest member of the team, usually playing a sprawling mix of dubstep and motivational anthems, namely Chariots of Fire and Livin’ on a Prayer. Once the event was over, these sods would never see the light of day again.

                For the event, I found myself in the last group. We had absolutely no clue what we had signed up for. We didn’t know that the requirements of Ten Tors were hulk-sized muscles, legs like a goat and usually a weakness to Kryptonite. We tried our best; we gave our all, and suffered immensely for our troubles. My teammate after the event had a blister the size of India, and a call centre was probably the only option left for him after the challenge left him in a drooling vegetative state. The event wasn’t what we expected, compared to the training. The training was just a few walks up and down hills, no sweat and no effort required. After a few seconds hard staring at Okehampton Camp, the base camp holding over 5,000 participants, I realised that I would need to step up my game if I didn’t want to end up just another army target. There were huge brutes oiling their muscles and exchanging grimaces, there were the veterans who had already done the event before and were recalling stories of past misadventures on the moor. The army personnel were no less encouraging. The Health and Safety managed briefed us on the dangers of the moor, the thousands of possible causes of death, stories about Morgan who had been running the event for seventeen years before getting lost in the moor and having to be airlifted off with two limbs missing and the other two in the wrong places. Credit to the man, recalling an ‘emotional’ story about his brother in arms had everyone giggling the whole way through. His cheer extended through the weather forecast- how we were all going to be drenched in fifteen feet of rainfall while he was watching the rugby. The army never seemed to lose their charisma from sending thousands of victims off to meet their ends.

                However, the hike was nothing it was made up to be. 21km of solid walking in the first four hours without breaks, it’s true, wind on the tents so strong it reached 9 in the Richter Scale, the constant backdrop of helicopters airlifting the lucky few away to drop out, but the rush of adrenaline in seeing the checkpoints ticked off one by one, of seeing the finish line, of realising it wasn’t the finish line and oh wait that’s the finish line, is something I’ll never forget. I had beaten the thirteen teams and innumerable other contestants who had dropped out, I had vaulted over treacherous bogs and had scrambled up vertical hillsides on hands and knees. I had finished what I had started just half a year ago with such grace that we got one of the best times possible, easily the best time done by the group I had done it with. I had left Okehampton Camp on a bleak Saturday morning- a tiny, moronic scared boy in fear of his life, and returned to Anthony’s Stile, the finish, a man, with life in perspective and one of the hardest challenges in the modern world under my belt.
Tom Bedford 25/09/2013 20:25

March on the Moors Part 1

 This is the first page of my AS level English Language, about my experiences of Ten Tors. I've had the results back so I assume it's alright for me to post it now. I got 48/50 so I hope you enjoy.

I don’t really know what I was doing in some rundown community centre in the middle of Blandleaze, Bristol, but I was, and on what was left of the wall was a notice. Nothing fancy, ‘do you want an adventure?’ It was in Comic Sans so probably not, however my curiosity took the better of me and two weeks later I found myself at a meeting with sixty other gawky misfits.

                An enthusiastic man with an unfortunate nose informed us that the Ten Tors challenge, contrary to popular belief, wasn’t just a walk in the woods. It was instead a reckless thirty-five mile scramble over hills and under valleys, into bogs and around missile testing centres, through the ‘beautiful’ monotonous moorlands of Dartmoor. Endorsed by the Duke of Edinburgh, who even abandoned his own award for it, and monitored by the army since its creation as a training exercise in 1960, this was the precursor to any outdoors challenge since. The challenge itself ran over 26 varying trails through Dartmoor, each visiting ten of the imaginatively named tors (Black Tor, Cat Tor, Bear Tor, need I name more?) before the final walk of shame to the finish, cheered on while the glares of thousands of infuriated parents wondered why you had beaten their child again and when could they go home?

                Before I signed up to this ludicrous venture, I figured I would need an excuse to do it, and decided on why I was doing it. The first reason was that it would go on my CV, and alongside Drama and Music; it would look good to have a genuine achievement on there. It is more important to universities to see that you can work in a team to complete a challenge, than that you can count to ten, and who doesn’t want some extra kudos towards uni? My second point of motivation was that the previous fifteen years of my life had been full of idle procrastination, and if I was ever going to leap out of the frying pan and into the fire it might as well be now. Finally, it was now or never for Dartmoor. It was under attack from china clay miners, careless farmers letting their sheep graze through the hills, and also the army bombarding the hell out of the hillsides.

                I figured if I made up my mind quickly, I could forget about the whole deal until it was over. Maybe a small ramble through the park once in a while, then the unfortunate chapter in my life would be over. This is how I understood it worked, what was the point of doing a ‘challenge’ if you had to exert yourself?

                As soon as I received the kit list, however, I knew I was in too deep. The sleeping bag, I quote, had to have a ‘comfort level down to zero degrees’.  I didn’t even eat ice pops if they were anything close to zero degrees, the idea of spending a night in the wilderness when I would be in effect a human rocket lolly, really didn’t appeal to me. And the very fact that we would need a ‘survival bag’ brought to mind images of nights curled in a Tesco carrier bag in the middle of a hurricane, pegged to the ground by a solitary shard of rusted tin. Some of the other equipment needed was just daft; -it was recommended army procedure to carry around a pen and paper at all times.  I don’t know about them, but drawing quick sketches of the landscape wasn’t on my agenda.

Tom Bedford 25/09/2013 20:20

              

Supernatural in 50 words.

 I have just entered a competition where you are required to summarise or review a TV series in 50 words. Here is my Supernatural synopsis. I may do more if I have any great ideas.

In a world where main characters won’t stay dead, two brothers do battle with increasingly ridiculous monsters; a twisted, convoluted plot and too many heart-to-hearts. Follow Mulder and Scully Winchester as they travel America saving mortals, shooting ghosts with shotguns and listening to classic rock. Contains pretty ladies and gore.

Tom Bedford, 23/09/2013 18:25

Tax you very much

 This satirical newspaper article was written about a remark Nick Clegg (deputy Prime Minister UK) made on the 10th March 2012.  I realise I am incredibly late to the party but I only heard it recently, in a debate about the word 'literally' and the misuse and abuse of it. It gave me an idea for some writing. The quote is as follows-'It makes people so incredibly angry when you are getting up early in the morning, working really hard to try and do the right thing for your family and for your community, you are paying your taxes and then you see people literally in a different galaxy who are paying extraordinarily low rates of tax'

TAX YOU VERY MUCH
 
      In a recent interview with Nick Clegg, the leader of the Liberal Democrat party admitted that 'It makes people so incredibly angry [when] you see people literally in a different galaxy who are paying extraordinary low rates of tax'. Almost immediately, a spokesperson for the Andromeda I Tax Commission released an official statement to the press. 'We are very insulted that Mr. Clegg finds our taxes inadequate' the spokesperson defended their opinion. 'we feel we pay a fair amount for the services provided. We are huge contributors to the treasury amongst other things, and feel that providing any more money could potentially harm the well-being of our citizens.'
      The Andromeda I galaxy is the twenty-fifth nearest galaxy to our own, and therefore the swift reply surprised politicians all over the country, who were not expecting a reply for at least a week. The Bloo race, who inhabit the galaxy, only pay taxes which only equal 40% that of the rest of the country. We spoke to one Herman Hammond (236 years), a space pilot, on what he thought of the taxes debate.
'Some may think it is unfair that we pay much less, but I think that it is right. Our planets are unsafe compared to the relative tranquillity of Earth, and food costs a large amount due to the shipping costs involved in flying it through several wormholes to get it here.' At this point our interview was terminated as the unfortunate pilot was eaten by a flying fish.
     On Earth, many tax-payers are relieved that Clegg is finally representing their viewpoints well.
 'He's said so much stupid stuff, we were beginning to lose interest in him.' Bartender Janet Smith (42 years) told us. 'He spends so much time talking about things like uni fees and reforming the House of Lords, we were beginning to think he'd forgotten he was meant to be looking after us. It's good to see that he's finally coming down hard on those freeloading aliens!' She followed up her statement by saying 'Don't those Lords have anywhere else to live?'
     In a private and confidential interview with Clegg, he admitted his true motives.
'They wouldn't let me build a house [on the Isle of Shpan., a small island off the coast of Shpireland, on the continent of Sheurope, on YX87b, the second planet from the sun in solar system dO2 305, a star system near the outskirts of Andromeda I] which was ridiculous. I went through the official channels, submitting proper planning permission and the required £38billion of tax-payer's money, yet they still wouldn't let me build a house. On my own planet!' For now the situation seems dormant but if events transpire, be sure to check back on this website for more details.
Personally, I don't mind this abuse of 'literally'. It's been used in classic liteature such as The Great Gatsby and so is in no way a modern phenomenon. Tom out, 22/08/2013 16:33

Train to Oban

The following work was written by me while on a week-long writing course at the Arvon Foundation in Devon, around three months previously. It is a semi-fictional work, and is not meant to cause offence. I am half Welsh and half Scottish so bear that in mind while reading.

They say history is a series of errors, that we learn and improve from our mistakes. I disagree. I say we learn and improve despite our mistakes. It was of huge mistakes I was thinking as I stood on the platform to Bristol Parkway, the lone traveller standing in the rising sun of an early and dusty Saturday morning, waiting for the 0800 hour train to the end of the line.

                I boarded the train a little resentfully. It had been two years since I had been to Cardiff and I had no desire to return. Last time I entered Wales I had a flaming blanket thrown at me by an intoxicated farmer, I was almost impaled by a rabid ram, and only narrowly survived a bridge swing with my life. This was all before reaching the Welsh side of the Wye.

                It is safe to say that Wales is a dangerous country with its bloodthirsty animals, perilous mountains and crazy inhabitants. It is also strangely and undeniably beautiful with its forgotten vales, crumbling castles and backwater rivers. I say this all with cautious recognition of my Welsh heritage. I am, after all, half Welsh- however I’d be very surprised if these Celtic genes were in fact much use at all. I blame my Welsh side for all my more unfortunate traits- my poor grasp of maths, my boring hair and, most of all, my vegetarianism.

                Two hours into the journey my thoughts on mistakes came again to the forefront of my mind in a surge of worry, prompted by the voice of a woman on the tannoy. As soon as I heard the accent, alarm bells started singing in my head. It was in Scottish.

‘Och age! Buffey bar wid Haggis an’ ale! Wee delays at Inverness, an’ den on tah luvverly rainy Oban!’

The alarm bells by now were all wailing, culminating in one huge confusing crescendo. Oban. The end of the line. The wrong line.

                As a dying man sees his life flash before his eyes, I was struck by an epiphany of such nightmarish resolutions that I’m pretty sure I dozed off for a bit. I didn’t hate Wales, with its fluffy sheep, kindly residents and beautiful landscapes. My encounters were just accidents. My Welsh genes were in fact used for all my more positive attributes- my dashing good looks, my ability to flip pancakes, and the way I can remember all the words to Livin’ on a Prayer.

                I hate Scotland. I hate blood pudding and haggis. I hate the way it always rains, I hate the fact that the other half of me is Scottish. I hate the fact it loiters up there in the north, doing so much of nothing, yet any time there’s a war or World Cup they have to rely on us to drag them along. I have nightmares of men in kilts. Yet here I was, sitting on the 0800 hour train to Oban. I was riding on a one-way journey to hell.

                And so I ended up in Oban. I awoke to a rural station overgrown with weeds, takeaway boxes and ancient newspapers that dated back to the 1400s. However, Oban wasn’t so bad. The food didn’t make me ill, the hotel bed didn’t break my spine and the station sold tickets for a return journey the very next week.

                In the end, I learnt my lesson- read the signs on trains before boarding, not after. I also learnt that maybe mistakes are useful… But that’s quite boring.

Tom Bedford fin, 21/09/2013 21:36 (Thank god for copy & pasting)

Purpose & Introduction

Purpose

Hi, I'm Tom Bedford and this blog is a compilation of any creative works I write.
That's a cheesey introduction I know, and at least you know that anything follows is better than that.
I started this blog on 21/09/13 as a way to exhibit my works to random strangers so that I could avoid the usual 'yeeeeah that's good!' sting every time you show some-one your work in real life. I plan to go to University to study Creative Writing (and literature, obviously) and so I need to have all the honest criticism I can get. I have not usually been a prolific, ambitious or outspoken writer and if I plan to have any future in writing, I need to change these traits. Therefore this blog will be my outlet for any odd nuggets of writing I create, as well as a way to publish any of my past works I feel would enlighten the lives of readers.

Introduction

I can only assume that if you've read this far you have some interest in my work, so firstly thanks for enduring that dull waffle that was the 'Purpose' section. I have to pretend I'm a serious guy. If you read my works, you'll begin to understand that I am anything but 'serious', and the reason is that I'm sick of such works. I'm sick of serious dramas, serious biographies, serious horror, serious comedy. My creed is that everything should be fun. Now don't get me wrong- a serious tone can always be used and most of my favourite works are serious, but there always been to be an counter-venom to all the moody and gritty texts I read. Hopefully, that'll be me. So if you're ever in need of cheering up, of a new viewpoint, of a reason to laugh or cry, or just a reason to be counter-productive and waste an afternoon, hopefully you'll stop here.

That Obligatory Part About Me

Some say I live in the shadows, only coming out at night. Others say that I am always hiding in plain view, ready to swoop down in our hour of need to save the day. All they can agree on is that I... Oh, this isn't the film about me? Bugger. Yeah, this is going to be one boring section.
I'm in Year 13 of school, ready to make the big leap in to University in a year, on the threshold of being a child and being a slightly bigger child in a strange town. For my A2 levels I study English Literature, English Language and Music (but we don't talk about the latter). Regarding books, films and gaming of which I am in to all three, I love comedy and buddy-cop films, satirical/comedy and sci-fi novels, and RPG games.
I realise this all my be boring, so I'm going to stop talking and just post some of my work. Hopefully it'll give you a bigger picture.
Thanks for reading this all (if you did). Tom out.
21/09/2013 21:30