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Ode to Terry Gifford with apologies to the ghost of William McGonagall ‘Twas in the autumn of eighty seven, that Terry got a sign from heaven To mount a festival of mountain lit- erature – (OK, the words don’t fit.) He put it on at Bretton Hall, (The name for most meant bugger all) But every year in autumn mist We all drove up to get the gist Of Terry’s annual list Of mountaineering’s glitterati Invited here to join the party, To air their views - sometimes contentious And one or two downright pretentious. Taking his cue from Andrew Motion Terry excels in self-promotion, Working flat out rain or snow To change the format of the show And bring in people in the know.
Half a teacher, half a preacher, The festival would always feature Ideas good – a few were bad, Some were mad and some were madder, He got Ed Drummond up a ladder (Though if you want to be pedantic He used a tripod for this antic.)
The audience was often voluble, Some impressively knowledgeable, Until that dreadful moment when Discussion was upset by Ken, Who would invariably rant At any controversial cant, And always found it quite revolting When hearing any praise for bolting.
‘Twas an event not to be missed, Though not much chance of getting pissed With vile red wine a pound a glass And catering reduced to farce. Some saved themselves for the slim Chance of getting drunk with Jim Who has fond memories of Bonatti Drinking Stones with this old fatty Along with Sheffield’s illiterati Who never missed the chance to party.
So today is Terry’s curtain call, Alas, the end for Bretton Hall. Now is the time for him to send all You faithful punters up to Kendal.
Jim Curran 25 March 2006 |